I think to myself
as my shaking hand takes to the page,
Will be about the day my father left,
my first day of college,
or even the way my hands shake when I write.
I write six words,
scratch out seven more,
and continue until I notice
i'm left with
a sloppy "i
even when my poems aren't about you, they're about you.
I remember sitting cross-legged
in the backyard with you,
stringing dandelions together
and lazily strumming my guitar
while you rested your head
on my thigh last summer.
I sang soft melodies
and you dreamt that time stopped
and we left this town together. . .
You're too practical,
and I'm too scared,
so here we go again.
You and I are the movie’s trailer,
the first lick of a dripping ice cream cone,
the first snow in winter.
We’re a beginning,
a preview of what could happen,
what would happen if our lives ever align.
But for now, I’m satisfied with
serendipitous blurs of visits,
occasional tastes of our favorite tea,
and the hope that I’ll enjoy
a fresh pot of Earl Grey
with you down this winding road.
More than anything else, I have to find me first; but I don’t want to forget you.
"Don’t worry, I’ll tell you until there are no more words to say.”
You just shook your head.
I tried to explain when I woke up this morning
just beneath the surface,
but I’d lost my ability to speak.
I dreamt of my very being
keeping the city safe
up until the day it rained.
I finally understood that Love herself is a “four letter word”.
Well my darling,
I’ll have to forget me to know where I’ve gone.
Open your eyes.
But now you’re gone, just a few days later,
to keep us both alive.
I held out the matches with no real reason why.
Just like that, I watch your head spin.
My fingers tingle, and I can breathe.
“How do you like it?”
It's falling together..
I’d seen it since the beginning.
Even so, I miss the days when things were simple.
September came and went with no evidence or new scars.
Nature can’t make up her mind about me either.
I still have the pictures to prove it.
The music is pure, but I barely notice.
Getting hopelessly lost
until I can barely distinguish my own penmanship.”
When I was young,
my mom braided my hair with purple ribbons
every Sunday morning.
Her fingers trembled, tangled in my curls,
but she kept braiding, twisting, tying
until it was to her standard.
Nights like this, I miss her
as I braid my own hair,
And I can't achieve the perfection
Of those trembling fingers.
Darling, I'm still learning to be brave
with the hole of your absence
festering in my gut
like the fresh wound it is.
But I'll get there.
They criticize, but they don't know
I have Courage in my collarbone,
Love on my lips,
and nothing to lose.