I hope to stand,
a few years from now,
where I once stood
frowning,
growing old
and reliable,
able to walk
on my own two feet
without flinching
at the rot of memory.

I hope the wind
still carries a tune
and maybe the smell
Of jasmine,

And somehow,
some way,
I’ll see my reflection
not just in tinted windows,
or puddles that ripple
with passing cars
but in the steady gaze
of someone kind,
quiet,
willing to stay.

Maybe, just maybe,
I’ll be wise enough
to see myself
in the tired eyes
of a stranger,
or the half smile
of someone I used to be.

And I’ll sit beside him
on a park bench
or a broken curb
Or the bridge above
The high way
Glaring at headlights,
and tell him

everything will be okay.
Not perfect.
Not painless.
But okay.

Some days, it’s a hunger
a deep pull from the stomach,
not for food, not for water,
but for something unnamed,
something just out of reach.

It’s in the way the morning air feels electric,
like possibility itself,
how the sun spills over cracked sidewalks,
touching everything,
saying, Look. Be here. Want more.

It’s in the ache of laughter
that lasts too long,
in the way music grips the ribs
and shakes loose something tender.
It’s the way fingers linger
when hands almost meet.

And yes, some days, the hunger fades,
buried under the weight of routine,
but then
a scent, a sound, a sudden rush of memory
and there it is again,
the pull, the ache, the craving
for more of this,
this fragile, fleeting, impossible thing.

This life.

I’ve held them
in my palms,
felt the weight,
watched them ripen
and grow moldy,
forgotten on
the kitchen table.

What a waste
of good lemons
they could be turned
into lemon bars,
or lemonade.

But I never knew
how much sugar,
how much stirring,
how much time
it takes to make
something sweet.

When do I learn
how to
make lemonade?

I hope i get out alive again.

I've done it multiple times,
this isn't a first.

But still,
I hope.

I’ve been so down lately
that when I wake
to face the sun again,
I pray for rain
clouds to keep me company
in this sickness.

And what a privileged sickness it is.
People are starving,
others bleed from iron
their bodies don’t need.
A century or two ago,
even an aching stomach
was a reason to fear.

Yet no cure exists for this.
Not the sunrise,
not the long awaited bloom
of Chinese fringe trees,
not the scent of fresh baked bread.

I fear early mornings,
losing my hours,
my eyes, my face.

Some tell me to accept
the possibility of God,
but I’d rather wake
to a beautiful woman by my side.

It’s sad, and not sad.

And suddenly, it’s night again.
She succumbs to slumber.
Maybe I can too.

I miss you,
on afternoons after long days,
new calluses forming
from gripping buckets,
on endless drives
where my eyes fight sleep.

Where are you,
my love,
that I don’t see you
or feel you
resting on my chest,
your bare knee
tucked between mine?

Morena,
beautiful girl who loves with her eyes,
roses pressed into every kiss,
I miss them,
every morning I wake
with only dawn to keep me company.

Kiss me, pretty girl,
tangled in a sea of sheets.
Kiss me now,
and later,
on lonely mornings
and quiet afternoons.

Do it now,
as the air fills with pollen,
as spring unravels red buds
one by one.

The pecan trees know
the cold won’t return.

So let me hold you,
my aching hands wrapped around you,
for as long as you are here.

It’s a sunny day,
I watch you
Slip through
My fingers
As I dip my hands
Into you,
Smoke dangling
From my lips
Like scars.

Tell me,
My love,
My new love,
My new found love,
Will I lose you too?

The tide pulls back,
a quiet thief,
stealing footprints
before I can trace them twice.

Tell me,
is love always like this?
A flicker in the dark,
a matchstick kiss,
a fleeting warmth
Tired and soulful eyes.

Or will you stay,
linger like salt on skin
like a song I whistle,
long after the music fades.