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.

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.”

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.

I stood there
frozen with societal protocol
doubt
and, of course,
indecision.
The artificial candle flicker
of the subway windows
illuminated my eyes
as I stared into the car
looking for
an assured lost cause.
But there you were–
all softness and light
contrasting with the
harsh cold
I stood in
frozen while your subway
passed.

How fantastic it is
to meet someone
who can match his intellect
with your’s.

How utterly exciting it is
in that second
where a strand of recognition
is formed.

It is not love
It is not lust
It is, plain and simple,
far more intoxicating than that.

First one there, last one to leave.
At first I thought it was a crush,
nothing out of the ordinary.
Then it was love, and I was afraid-
a little odd, but not unusual.
But now I realize it’s the rarest
thing of all:
A meeting of minds.
The realization in another person
that we don’t belong here.
That we are of another world,
one with high academic standards
and appreciation for the old.  

First one there, last one to leave.
At first I was afraid
nothing I knew would be enough.
Then I realized the shift in expectations-
a little less than what I was used to.
But now we understand each other,
things left unsaid:
A lack of academics.
The search for something more
that takes us away from here.
That if he rely on
one another
and expect more from each other

It will all work out.

I want to grow old with you.
I want to wake you up
     in the middle of the night
     just to make sure you're okay.
I want to sit on the porch
     a glass of lemonade in hand
     and talk about all those old times.
I want to watch as our hair goes grey
     as our faces become lined
     and orthopedic shoes come into our fashion.
But for now we are not so old
     and all we have is now
     with no guarantee of a future.
In this moment under a tree
     we wish that today will turn into tomorrow
     and those days stretch into years.
For I want to grow old with you
     and live out our tomorrows together
     until we run out.