Like a lot of "artists" I fall in love with someone about once a day. The ones it happens regularly with are the ones that are worth poetry.

Where will the sun go after sunset?
After it dives into the deep blue sea?
Will it go somewhere it needs to be?
Or will it just take time to be free?
I don't know what the sun will do meanwhile.
Thank God. Love's still there in the moonlight.
But, really, will the sun ever get tired?
Playing the wicked games, up in flames;
Inexhaustible, yet a source of blames?
Why do humans blame it for their faults?
By the way, where will the sun go?
People in the other end speak stupid.
"The Sun's still shines after sunset.", they say.
**How can I say it's not the sunset that I mean.

Loving you was going to that lock bridge and not closing the lock.... because if I did, it meant we were real, and if we were real, it meant we'd eventually be destroyed.

Loving you was like taking the batteries out of my watch on nights we weren't around.... because the ticks and the tocks only reminded me of how you said the sound synchronized with my heartbeat and steadied you to sleep.

Loving you was like cold hands on cold evenings because nothing even dared, not even my pockets, to confine me from touching you.

Loving you was sleepy afternoons and mid day naps because we'd stay up the whole night flying time like pilots whose only goal was to make each other laugh.

Loving you was like home after being abandoned and hope in hopeless romantic.

Loving you was that feeling in the pit of my stomach when something just wasn't right with you and.... loving you was endless promises of a future and now broken guarantees of what we thought would be.

Loving you at one time was having nothing to lose and everything to gain but now loving you comes and goes in strides like the tides, most nights I hardly even realize; the tides are at ease, but some nights the rocks at the shore are begging the sea to be consumed.

Loving you hopefully one day will be nothing more than a step on a stair case.

Loving you was this poem.

Magazines, girlfriends, my mother
They always talk about closure
I have found that closure does not exist
Anywhere outside the labyrinth of mind

I have found that the only way
To get over my manipulative ex-boyfriend
Was to walk away without looking back
Was to learn to love myself unapologetically
And not long for anyone to do it for me

I never wanted closure after disclosing my assault
Never wanted an apology to flow
From his water-colored mouth
He was a family member
And I was a child
Cat and mouse
He made me forget that I am worth more
Than where his hands went eleven years back
And where he forced mine to go.

Closure can look like taking your clothes off
In front of a full length, 360 degree mirror
And saying
"****."
It can be thanking God for the bend in my knee
The curve of my hips
The bulge of my stomach
To thank Him for letting me live this long

After a suicide attempt
After an eating disorder
I should not be alive
But I am
Is that not closure enough?

See, closure is misleading
It is not the end of a stage in your life
But the moment you realize
You don't need anything else
To continue to live.

THERE is something terrible
about a hurdy-gurdy,
a gipsy man and woman,
and a monkey in red flannel
all stopping in front of a big house
with a sign "For Rent" on the door
and the blinds hanging loose
and nobody home.
I never saw this.
I hope to God I never will.
  
  Whoop-de-doodle-de-doo.
  Hoodle-de-harr-de-hum.
Nobody home? Everybody home.
  Whoop-de-doodle-de-doo.
  
Mamie Riley married Jimmy Higgins last night: Eddie Jones died of whooping cough: George Hacks got a job on the police force: the Rosenheims bought a brass bed: Lena Hart giggled at a jackie: a pushcart man called tomaytoes, tomaytoes.
  Whoop-de-doodle-de-doo.
  Hoodle-de-harr-de-hum.
    Nobody home? Everybody home.