Your hands
felt like the pages of a well-read library book
torn at the edges by someone who didn't appreciate the story you told

using all the big words I knew,
I tried to fill in your missing paragraphs

but you were never that hard to read.

tracing my fingers along your spine
I find her name
breaking up your sentences like a misplaced comma.

You will never love me.
period.

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.

Not even a year since that photo was taken,
how much joy and identity was living within
graceful, limber inter-twinings;
the fresh breeze of womanly motion
Now, I have to put her away,
cover her with
wool coats
closed lips
polite smiles
Regurgitating reasons over and over
do not help and do not belong
Redefining the sound and taste of a soul mate
replace with comfort in growing old together
The only problem is, that I am not old yet
and the in between still matters

There was an army of ants in the plastic plants
So I poured light through a magnifying glass
And I created a fire on the artificial grass

They scurried and hurried
with flames on their backs
Like soldiers on a hopeless plain,
searching for invisible barracks

And I sighed as they died,
because we are all the same:
Scurrying and hurrying from invisible pain