You were like that day in March
the one that teases of Spring
of the hope for sunshine
of warmth.
We walked the windy streets
side by side
Fall wind chasing away daylight
into frigid evenings.
But in those evenings
standing on cracked concrete
I felt your warmth
like an Indian Summer.

He moved
He is lost to me
Yet he is here
Haunting.

He follows me
with every screech
of chair and table
on tile floors.

He reminds me
with every ride
of the subway
as I search for him.

Physically, he has moved
just like
Physically, he wasn’t ever mine.

But

Emotionally, he is still here
just like
Emotionally, he was mine.

Our memories intertwined.

There was a house:
Allen Avenue, 04103

As far as I can remember
It wasn't ever a home.

It stood empty
and decayed along the busy road:

A reminder in white peeling paint
and single-pane windows
of what the neighborhood was.

All through my childhood it remained,
and decayed, and observed.

And the summer I came home,
freshman year of college done,
so was the house.
So was the home of my childhood.

I want to live in a world
where I can be proud
of my body
And not fear that I’m a 12, not a 2
and accept myself.

I want to live in a world
where men are valued
on television
And women are not always supreme
in their tiny dresses.

I want to live in a world
where I do not have to fear
for my saftey
And not have to tell a friend I’m going
for a walk.

I want to live in a world
where I can walk home alone
at night
And not have every creak, every thud
set me on edge.

I want to live in a world
where gender equality
is real
And is not split through medial portrayal
and unsafe reality.

“I am so proud”
you wrote
“of my intelligent, hardworking,
engaging and lovely…
niece.”
Not daughter.
Niece.
Yes, she is all those things,
but just once
when I do something
important
would it be so hard to
acknowledge it?
But no, that would be asking
too much.
The only thing that remains
is for me to be angry.
Not with you, with myself,
for actually being surprised
that it was her title after those
adjectives

and not mine.

The door began to close
I noticed a man run
for it.
I stopped the door
and looked up.
And there he was.
New glasses
Same green shirt
Same bright eyes.
He hugged me, like friends do.
A far cry from our last embrace,
lasting only a few seconds
instead of a painfully beautiful eternity.
We talked like we had before.
But when we parted this time,
I looked him in the eye.
“Goodbye, Chris”
And I meant it.

I called you
in search of a lightbulb.
After three months
of no contact,
and my feelings
remaining unchanged,
I expected the worst.
But, it actually was
for the best.
You never called me back.
No, instead you emailed me:
a cold, impersonal note
giving me only the required
information,
giving me only a hint
of what was.
Not particularly romantic
but quite realistic.
You’ve moved on.
Maybe I should, too.

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.

As the spider-like arms clatter across
and the rounded keys are depressed with learned accuracy
a rhythm is spoken of the old, rightful ways
through the surrounding din of modernity.

I am the traitor.
I don't believe in god, and
I especially don't believe in organized religion.
In fact, I find it irrational
and self-serving.
So why do tears spring to my eyes
as I think of the birth of
a baby I don't believe even existed?
It's not about the baby.  Or the priests.
I may go to hell for saying it,
but they don't matter.  At all.

No, it's about walking down a brick sidewalk
along a cobblestone street
arm-in-arm with a loved one,
Seeing the ancient stone churches
capped with snow and with candles in the windows,
Taking in the brightly festive lights
adorning fading brick buildings,
and knowing that there's a little more
peace in the world
as snow silently falls,
coating the world's residents
in love for one another.
Even if it is for only a few days.

So, the world is laughing at me.
again.
It really likes to do that.
Most of the jokes are about you,
by the way.
They are also emailed to me,
by you.
I think that you need me,
you said you did.
Then I realize the truth:
I am a dumping ground.
Sitting and waiting for you to come
see me.
Your words carry me, only to put me
down.
Why do you do that?
It’s not nice.
Yet I am still waiting, sitting.
So the joke’s on me,
Your dumping ground.

I heard once that
the lies we tell are less frightening than

If we stopped telling them.
so should we stop?
never.
truthfully, I like the lies.

They allow me to be with you
having the world like of you and me
as a we
the powerful emotion of that fact

Sadly isn't true.
i wish it was
maybe in the future it will be.
probably not, but I can hope
like I have for years
eventually I'll realize

Is this silly lie what I want?
Is it better than nothing?
I had myself convinced it is.

But I can't help but wonder
Because we are faking it
Between fiction an reality we hang

Could reality be better?
Can I manage the words?
Can you hear them?

I need you out of my life,
but at the same time for you to stay.
I don't know where I would be,
but right now you cause me pain.
I want to run and cling to you forever,
but that would just be leading myself on.
I never though I'd come to this,
but I don't know how to deal with my love.
I know you don't love me.,
but have been clinging to hope.
I wander though the memories alone,
but I want them to stop.
I wish this would be good-bye,
but I know I'll never be rid of you.
I will see you wander through my mind,
but I will be done with you.
I wish myself to stand in front of you,
but at the same time delay.
I will my lips to form the needed words,
but I don't think I'll be capable.
I  hide behind these words that you read,
but It's not good-bye I say.

Ding-happiness
Your words fill me
glowing on a vibrant screen
the false light illuminating love.

Ding-sadness
Your words crush me
a realization of untrue feelings
going back down into darkness.

Ding-nothing
Your lack of words
no mail of any feeling
this could possibly be worse.

Ding-sadness
Your problems, your words
friends only known to you
what about what was us?

Ding-unknown
Your next email coming
patiently I wait for it
through the sadness for joy.

So, I lied.
That sums it up
Why? you ask.  When?
Let’s start with when.
It was last Sunday
When we were in the park
It was cold, raining, and dark,
a Maine January thaw
I liked our talk,
said I could tell you anything.

Wait.
That’s two lies

I said that we wouldn’t be
good together at all.
I thought, I think
the exact opposite.
That makes the second lie

Let me explain.
I didn’t want to interfere
If I said the truth
There would be two outcomes

One, you don’t love me

Two, you do.
I know that doesn’t sound too bad
but I would be forcing you
to make your decision.
Loving me makes you straight
And, frankly, I don’t think you are.
So, I lied.

Some people don’t like déja-vu
I’m not sure why.
Standing in that old brick building
I almost feel as if I am ten again

Leaning over a white railing
Looking at the colored floor below
Waiting for an old friend
To come join me

Reality comes rushing back
As a small hand grabs mine
I lurch back into the present
“Come play with me”

I follow the small child
Tell her the games we would play
Passing the torch to the younger ones
Isn’t five weeks of déja-vu grand?

Oh how those silver and black spines
creak up the rolling back,
creased with blackened arteries.
As the back slopes downward
salt hangs in the air,
until the source is found.
Here the spines are not silver
but instead are crumbling brick,
paint flaking in ancient melodies.
Across that salty view
the quiet evaporates as cries tear,
while seagulls swoop and wound.

The Maybaline raccoon eyes stare
full of synthesized tragedy
for a life
severed from the parents
she clings to so dearly.

The black-flaked fingertips dance
without any real purpose
for entertainment
and communication within
a hand-held device.

The perfectly messy hair lays
upon a head full of thoughts
for friends, enemies, and homework
yet the ambition isn't
anywhere to be found.

She sees herself as different
but she really is the same
committing those high school crimes
That she pretends to be above.

She sits there
absorbed in her phone
her computer
her teenage dream.

She faces life
absorbed by pointless drama
fake friends
nothing that's permanent.

She waits restlessly
absorbed in a life
an email
and her boyfriend.

She's so sure
absorbed by uncontrolled lust
about him
she'd do anything.

She ignores feelings,
absorbed in the moment,
of truth
as she waits
     Hidden in a dusty corner
          For he who she believes
               To be prince charming.

I heard once
smell is the most powerful
trigger of emotion.
I, for one, don't
doubt it.

For two days after
seeing you,
I smelled faintly of you.
That mere fact
made me so happy.

It was as if you were there.
Enveloping me.
If not with love,
at least with something.

It's better than nothing.

Did you ever
Want to do something extraordinary?
Did you ever
Think your future was amazing?
Have you ever
Realized that's impossible?
Have you ever
Accepted the truth?

Because all I see
in my future is
an office.  If I'm lucky.
Hopefully not a cubicle.
I thought I'd do something amazing
I thought I'd make the world better
At least I thought I'd travel.
But when will I be able
to do that while I'm
paying a mortgage
buying a car
overpopulating the world.

I should be happy!  I mean,
look at my future.
A college education,
A nice house,
A car, and
2.1 children.

It may be the American Dream
But it isn't mine.

Have you ever wondered
What would happen with just a touch
Even a call, a text, an email?
Have you ever wondered
What would happen if we said
All that was on our minds?

Have you ever wondered
If the only thing holding us back
Is just ourselves?
Have you ever wondered
If the only reason we stop is fear
Why not go for it?

As I stand here in front of your door
As I sit here in front of a screen
As my fingers type out the words
My eyes search for the elusive send button.

Out of sight, out of mind.  Right?
That's funny because you're always in mine.
But I have a feeling that old adage
holds true for your mind.
I've always known you're less in love with me
Than I am with you.
I've accepted that.
But if I didn't constantly invade your life
Would you ever call me?
No.

You'd let me fade away.

I won't be that girl,
the one who follows "the one"
because he's "the one".
or so she naively thinks.

I won't follow you,
never.  and certainly not
to another state-
all the way to Oberlin.

I won't change my mind,
change my life plans and life goals
just to be with you-
for I can survive alone.

I won't even look
for colleges where you do.
I'll stay in the east
and I'll be content with that.

I won't try to go.
So why am I applying
I will let you go.
to Baldwin-Wallace?

Ding- regret
I should stop checking
my email in the morning.
Because here I go:
another day worrying about you.

Ding- consideration
It's not your fault,
I know it's not.
But all of today
all I'll think about is you.

Ding- blame
What did you mean?
Is it my fault?
What did I do?
I just hope you're okay.

I must recognize impermanence.
The curtain falls,
Good-byes are said.

I sit here in the darkness, waiting.
The end will come,
Unaccepted.

This odd, close-knit family will be gone.
Yet it does stay,
Just in memory.

This wish is all that remains after.
Never forget
What we have done.
The magic made,
The illusion, the theatre.

You are my biggest supporter
my hardest critic.
If I write something, I ask you to read it.
You say it's good, then that's true
but if it's bad, you are right.
Unfortunately, you only get second-rate poems
Because the best that I write
are not for your eyes.
I value you too much to lose you.
Because if you read them,
         I would.

Created by man,
or woman, maybe.
Can I be greater
than my creators?
Some would say I am.
For I do not live,
but still have power.
And one day, I'll think
on my own, maybe.
I'm ever-growing
and ever-changing.
For the public good
hopefully, or not.

There’s a world beyond this
Yet for a moment it stands
This Christmas-lit gym
Filled with students
Like a bad high school movie
We watch the student band play
Reflecting on our small world
We sit safe and protected
Our parents patiently waiting
Soon we will be launched into adulthood
But for today we sit,
A high school cliche.