You talk to everyone, everyone in your heart,
But you’re not a god,
You’re just a woman sitting in a subway car, talking to herself.
You talk to Dionysus, asking him for a drink.
You go to the tobacco field, smoking a hookah there,
Because you like the smell of tobacco leaves.

You walk down the street, feeling the scent of lilacs,
Though it’s not spring.
People look at you, and you think you know them all.
You feel somatic touches,
It seems like the one you love has come to you and touched you.

You listen to the music, The Verve’s “Bitter Sweet Symphony.”
You feel an extreme, your taste receptors sharpen.
You feel love, elevated.

Bouquet is far too grand a word
For flowers lent against a tree.
Plastic wrapped and garage bought,
They'll never complement a vase
Or bask inside a living room
Amongst a noisy family.
Instead they'll wilt beneath achenes
From rows of careful London planes,
Their never tasted flower food
Held on with bright red sticky tape.
Stranger, brother, loving son,
Far too swiftly were you come
And gone.

Once there lived a violinist bound by need,
Chasing perfection, driven by greed.
From morning till night, he played alone,
Seeking greatness carved in stone.

One day, a rumor reached his ear—
A Frenchman had come, brilliant and near.
Curiosity burned, though he knew fear,
What if this stranger’s skill was clear?

At the theater, he watched from the side,
As music pierced his heart and pride.
The Frenchman’s notes, haunting and raw,
Exposed a flaw he hadn’t known he saw.

Home he staggered, in fury and shame,
Took up his violin, played the same.
But for hours, he fell apart,
Each note a tear in his breaking heart.

At dawn, they found him, silent and cold,
With his violin, empty and old.
A life spent chasing a light too bright,
Lost to pride, vanished in night.

Perhaps it was
a day in October,

or summer,
or spring—

it could have been
a Tuesday,

or the rains
in July.

How could I
have known?

I’ve rarely been
that blessed.

Perhaps it was
her eyes,

the song
of her laughter,

those many nights
of longing,

or the distance
that has come of
age.

But one day,
I fell in love.

She had galaxies
In her eyes
And her tears
Were falling stars.