You were like that day in March
the one that teases of Spring
of the hope for sunshine
of warmth.
We walked the windy streets
side by side
Fall wind chasing away daylight
into frigid evenings.
But in those evenings
standing on cracked concrete
I felt your warmth
like an Indian Summer.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 11:07 PM UTC
He moved
He is lost to me
Yet he is here
Haunting.
He follows me
with every screech
of chair and table
on tile floors.
He reminds me
with every ride
of the subway
as I search for him.
Physically, he has moved
just like
Physically, he wasn’t ever mine.
But
Emotionally, he is still here
just like
Emotionally, he was mine.
Our memories intertwined.
Sep 6, 2012
Sep 6, 2012 at 8:46 PM UTC
There was a house:
Allen Avenue, 04103
As far as I can remember
It wasn't ever a home.
It stood empty
and decayed along the busy road:
A reminder in white peeling paint
and single-pane windows
of what the neighborhood was.
All through my childhood it remained,
and decayed, and observed.
And the summer I came home,
freshman year of college done,
so was the house.
So was the home of my childhood.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 11:04 PM UTC
I want to live in a world
where I can be proud
of my body
And not fear that I’m a 12, not a 2
and accept myself.
I want to live in a world
where men are valued
on television
And women are not always supreme
in their tiny dresses.
I want to live in a world
where I do not have to fear
for my saftey
And not have to tell a friend I’m going
for a walk.
I want to live in a world
where I can walk home alone
at night
And not have every creak, every thud
set me on edge.
I want to live in a world
where gender equality
is real
And is not split through medial portrayal
and unsafe reality.
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 12:04 AM UTC
“I am so proud”
you wrote
“of my intelligent, hardworking,
engaging and lovely…
niece.”
Not daughter.
Niece.
Yes, she is all those things,
but just once
when I do something
important
would it be so hard to
acknowledge it?
But no, that would be asking
too much.
The only thing that remains
is for me to be angry.
Not with you, with myself,
for actually being surprised
that it was her title after those
adjectives
and not mine.
Apr 14, 2012
Apr 14, 2012 at 9:27 PM UTC
The door began to close
I noticed a man run
for it.
I stopped the door
and looked up.
And there he was.
New glasses
Same green shirt
Same bright eyes.
He hugged me, like friends do.
A far cry from our last embrace,
lasting only a few seconds
instead of a painfully beautiful eternity.
We talked like we had before.
But when we parted this time,
I looked him in the eye.
“Goodbye, Chris”
And I meant it.
Apr 14, 2012
Apr 14, 2012 at 9:24 PM UTC
I called you
in search of a lightbulb.
After three months
of no contact,
and my feelings
remaining unchanged,
I expected the worst.
But, it actually was
for the best.
You never called me back.
No, instead you emailed me:
a cold, impersonal note
giving me only the required
information,
giving me only a hint
of what was.
Not particularly romantic
but quite realistic.
You’ve moved on.
Maybe I should, too.
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 12:05 AM UTC
Don’t look-
Turn away from the
imperfect.
Turn away from the
homeless man sleeping on a bench
across the street from the Ritz.
Turn away from the
woman asking for coins
outside a nice restaurant.
Turn away from the
elderly woman trying
to cross the street.
Turn away from the
disabled man
standing on the bus.
How quickly one becomes
accustomed to waking around
partially blind.
Society allowing selfishness
to overrule
what is just.
For we should
turn to the
imperfect.
Because those who
society calls imperfect
do not turn away
from each other.
Don’t look-
for you may realize
just who
the imperfect one
truly is.
Feb 20, 2012
Feb 20, 2012 at 12:02 AM UTC
I’m trying to find someone
who understands
Someone who’s been there–
someone who’s smiled like a fool,
suddenly understood what all those songs
are really about.
Someone who’s been frozen with anticipation,
known a limited number of days.
Someone who’s seen months trickle
to weeks
to days
to minutes
to that last moment.
Someone who’s felt the pain of that last embrace
Someone who’s known how it feels
to walk away for that final time,
knowing it’s the final time.
Feeling every nerve, every cell urging
you to run back to that place of delirium–
back to light and softness and silliness,
back to synchronized movements,
back to quirky phrases, laughter, and correct grammar,
even back to long work days, scheduling,
line notes, prop tracking, blocking
back to that connection that transcends
categorization.
Back to 1 AM hugs
Back to that enigmatic “love ya.”
Feb 9, 2012
Feb 9, 2012 at 10:23 PM UTC
That’s how it would be
I’d forever be the one
telling your doorman
“I won’t be staying”
his accusing looks
knowing I’m only around
when the Mrs. to your Mr.
isn’t
That copy of your apartment key
that won’t be returned
because you only needed two before,
rests on my keychain.
As the doorman winks, I realize
why I’m the one worth leaving
why I’m the one with bare fingers
while her’s are adorned-
she wouldn’t do this
For I love you enough
to keep coming to you
but not enough
to leave you.
Feb 9, 2012
Feb 9, 2012 at 10:18 PM UTC