The summer sun is warm
and fragrant on my skin
and I'm the happiest I've ever been
right before the first time
you leave me.
The second time,
the cold is sharp and ruthless
and tastes like emptiness
and I saw it coming
days, maybe weeks in advance.
Neither time is better than the other,
but then again,
neither one is worse,
like comparing death by fire
to death by falling from a height;
death is death
and the time to dwell on it
is the true meaning of hell.
There won't be a third time.
I say this every time
our song comes on the radio
or
I see your favorite flower
or
someone happens to wear
your fragrance of choice.
What are the odds, d'you think?
If I tattoo it on my wrist
THERE WON'T BE A THIRD TIME
and I write it on every flat surface I own
THERE
WILL
NOT
BE
A
THIRD
TIME
which is more likely:
you kiss me and I push you away
or
a piano falls on my head?
I'm hoping for a piano, honestly.
At least then I can imagine
the last time you leave me
is at my wake
and this time
this time
you cry.
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 1:54 AM UTC
I have to be strong for other people.
This is all that I know.
I cannot, must not, break down
in front of another human.
My pain takes a backseat to theirs.
Cast aside, on my own comand.
I still feel the pain, however.
And when I'm alone...
Sometimes, when alone,
I remember.
I break.
I hurt.
Then I walk out.
Ready to take on another person's burdens.
(d d.b)
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 11:24 PM UTC
He told her she was pottery; a vase with grooves and cracks.
The patterns of the history she hid behind her back.
Within his words he layered in- like thread upon a loom-
The sweetest undercurrent to illuminate that gloom.
In certain cultures, he decreed, when pottery is cracked
They aggrandize them with gleaming gold to bring their splendor back
For they believe, with certainty, once damage has been wrought
Those tiny cracks, now filled with light, hold truths that can't be taught.
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 8:08 PM UTC
You are my sword and shield
you are my suit of armor
you are the helm upon my head,
the feather in my hair.
You smile and my spine straightens
my shoulders broaden
my muscles swell.
Someone tries to tell me that
your love is a sin
and my laughter is a spear
and the memory of your hand in mine
turns my heart to a weapon.
I am Achilles
and David
and Joan of Arc
I am Hua Mulan.
You kiss me and your breath
turns my lungs to billows,
your blood is in my veins
and not a drop will spill.
I can fight anyone
I can do anything
if it’s done in the name of you.
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 8:06 PM UTC
I am afraid,
in a way I haven't been before.
I am afraid
of the way people fall out of the sky,
I am afraid
of the way people disappear into the sea
without saying goodbye;
Suddenly the loss
feels like a snake
slithering from across the room;
venom in his blood
and names on his tongue.
I am afraid
of the way people find themselves
at the bottom of the barrel.
And I
am scraping
at the end of it.
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 7:28 PM UTC
The carrion birds are circling overhead
and I’m dragging my half dead body
down a deserted street thinking to myself
this is when the credits roll for me
and I’m not so sure I’ve the energy to mind
but then there is the ghost of your hand
brushing against my cheek and oh
oh god I could cry for wanting you.
I breathe in a deep gasping lungful of air
I’d just convinced myself I wouldn’t miss
because someday someday maybe soon
I might be able to take that air from you
I might be able to turn my head and brush
my mouth with yours in a disbelieving caress
to touch your lips with just the tip of my tongue
in abject adoration of you.
And oh just the thought of it
just the force of my want
has frightened away the vultures again.
My body is still half dead but my heart bangs on
for you for you for you
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 11:52 PM UTC
It pains me, a bit
to think about the possibilities
of life if you were here,
if I could watch your smile
bloom upon your face
see the signs of laughter brewing
just after I’ve said something silly.
I’d cook you dinner
and blush with happiness
when you teased me for my
utter lack of skill
and after you would make hot cocoa
for our movie marathon
and we’d have punch drunk discussions
on the philosophy of psychopathic ******
for dessert.
While the credits rolled
your eyes would droop
and your head, heavy with sleep
would rest sweetly on my shoulder.
Would I kiss you, then?
Softly, so as not to ruin the mood?
Or fierce and biting with the breaking
of long-held restraint?
Would you invite me to your bed?
And if you did, would I accept?
Or would I stroke your hair
and kiss you a gentle goodnight
at your bedroom door?
Would we grow old together,
counting wrinkles as they form,
marking the days with
ridiculous anniversaries:
first kiss, first fight, first joint bout of pyromania?
Or would it end, perish early
like so many things are wont to do?
Would you die first?
Or would I?
And when we were gone
would we have anyone
to tell stories about us
and the crazy things we no doubt said and did?
Would I ever tell you this poem was about you?
Maybe.
Maybe, if you were here, I could.
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 12:00 PM UTC
My brain is a sieve.
Most of the words of this poem have dripped out
on the road
on my shirt
on the front step as I fumbled for my keys.
I think it was something about
starlight and loving you
but then that’s no surprise.
At this point the structure of my DNA
is sonnets I composed for you
and free verse you’ll read and think
is about someone else.
The kinds of words you’ll coo about
and caress in your mind
and shower me with praise over
like a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek
when I want and want and want you.
But I suppose we’ll never know, now
what this poem was going to be about.
It’s my brain, you see.
It’s a sieve.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 8:22 PM UTC
Depression visits often
He’s the kind of guy
Who doesn’t wipe his
Shoes before entering
And leaves traces of
Himself through out
The house
He keeps to himself
But you can always
Find him washing down
His doubts with cheap wine
Or writing a love poem
That never gets delivered
When it’s time for him
To leave, he usually
Prolongs his goodbyes, but
When all is said and done
He quietly sneaks out
Without me noticing
Even though he’s gone
I leave a key under the door mat
Because I know he will
Be back soon.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 11:11 AM UTC