What exactly does it mean for me
to wisely my time allocate--
abstain, refrain, to lie in wait?
What more, in afterlife, will I see
in living this life pleasure-free?
Have I opted out of golden gate,
if I, myself, do desecrate,
a Plan which may or may not be?
What precisely does it mean for me
to think instead I choose free-will?
Is there such thing as novelty
or is all written, so it shall be?
As the great end nears, I will know nil;
as I know not now, I will know then, still.
I've never been the type
to let my heart burn a hole in my pocket.
I never needed to be told
not to spend it all in one place.
you are an investment.
It's all currency-
our time and attention,
affection and joy.
I'd like to spend it all with you.
My mind spent too much
time engaged in senseless doubt
though I knew the thoughts
were wasted I was resigned
to hear them out. After
I could see
earned release ; in ex-
change for my destruction,
I discovered inner peace.
In purifying my own soul I
see the goodness of the whole
On my way from you,
taking the last trip down your steps,
I slipped on ice we'd watched freeze from sheets of sleet,
from sheets of jersey cotton.
I caught myself,
but not before thinking back to that fall evening,
to the warm rain that oiled the top of our stairs across town;
back to when, on my way to you,
I left him
and lost my footing.
Grace aside, these moments
parallel in a way that fissured not bone,
but my psyche--
defining at once
this new she who sought one,
despite she who belonged to another.
Oh, the things she did say,
this foreign half of me,
as, descending your crystal-coated staircase,
she heard herself, for the last time, speak.
We had both fallen so in love with the sound of her voice.
On my way from you,
I caught myself,
and deliberately, carefully,
broke her with each following step.
The overhang saves my parking place
on warm nights, too dark for walking.
Green and alive, it juts out above the brick,
a shapely mess of twig and vine.
By noon, I unlock my doors to find
that it has littered my car with seedpods.
Each with five projections:
finger-like, with digits,
like your hands, like your fingers;
sliding off my body as I pull away.
I am half-way home
and my car is clean.
I planted flowers in the bed--
I tilled the ground up new:
for daffodil and iris bulbs
to grow tall in your lieu.
Not lily nor mum,
no, nothing did come:
as did nothing of you.
dreams suspend me
and render me breathless,
in transcendent bliss with you.
with no tethers or binds,
so clear in my mind
is the freedom i've missed with you.
my heart throbs wildly,
from the feelings inside me-
for the things that i wish that you knew.
it's here in this place,
where i know only your face,
that i tell you i love you, and do.
my favorite part
is, I'm not sure
which of us was trembling;
today i bruised an apple,
i split him to his core.
all he wanted was to nourish me
and nothing more.
once a fragrant flower
fitted in a white bouquet,
he chose to be support for me,
and i cast him away.
je t'écris les petits mots français
parce que tu les as entendus en anglais.
je veux que je sois la femme seule que tu adore;
que tu voudrais, que tu a besoin d'encore.
mon coeur te connaît bien,
et tu peux l'avoir, si tu le tiens.
sitting at my job,
back in the lobby corner.
no eyes fixed on me,
my eyes shift between patrons,
coworkers, and boss.
when did these people
stop being happy? was there
a single moment?
or did it happen
slowly, creeping in without
much noise or notice?
uniform and all the same,
bleeding, same blank pain.
I have to look at
my blue socks sometimes to think
I'm any different.
"If you want to make God laugh, make plans."
You and Me. Only I know
how wrong it sounds.
An ethereal joke.
He'll be rolling because of this one,
but you've heard it before.
Locked in a dream with you at 4am,
this is not how we were supposed to spend the night together.
I didn't ask for you,
I guess I never really had to.
Your timing was its best
when I was at my worst.
You've stolen enough of my time.
But for the next hour,
I'm yours again,
We both know you couldn't resist
a complete mess,
I'd never been so beautiful in your butterscotch eyes.
I hate myself for remembering them.
Why invade me again?
You haven't had your fill
of playing with my head?
I can see you much clearer
with eyes closed.
It was always a joke to you, too.
You should know that,
for me, it fell a little flat.
sometimes, I think
you're a color,
that only I can see.
on ahead, there's a place,
in shades of you,
waiting, for you and me.
I have looked into your eyes—
into your dreams and through your mind.
Watching you look over me,
I see naught but wasted time.
Your perfect love is a sunrise
to my cool and easterly heart.
The light you bring seeks for me
after many nights chasing the moon.
With dawn, I lose sight
of what the orb ever meant to me,
as you drown its scant light
and silence the stars.
It's cold, always was.
You're burning, for me.
The vibrance night stole,
you restore and replenish
with every slow tick of the axis.
Color floods fields and valleys
I'd wandered deep in darkness;
dew steams to scents of summer
as I watch treaded grasses spring to life.
It's here I sit.
Lost on tangled paths
I was sure were meant to lead me,
I forged another, alone,
and built a home.
You shine in through its windows,
seep in past my walls, and,
as I watch and wait for you,
you quietly reach for more of me.