I always thought we were the perfect match.
But matches are meant
                                   to ignite
                                         and burn out.

Sometimes I wish I was born as a boy
my late-night strolls wouldn't be seen as coy.
Sometimes I wish I was born as a boy
at least I wouldn't be reduced to a mere toy.

Sometimes I wish wasn't born as a female
my life story would have been a tellable tale.
Sometimes I wish I wasn't born as a female
my journey wouldn't have been filled with storms and hail.

Sometimes I wish I wasn't born at all
coz there nothing I hate more than being a life-size doll.

As stately as a Redwood and as strong
as the gray cliffs of the Sierras,
as warm as the sun on the kelp-strewn sand.
I remember her musical voice and I hear
the murmur of the waves
and the whisper of the wind
in the Eucalyptus trees.
I see the limitless ocean and sky,
remembering her beautiful blue-green eyes.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

My hands miss the rain
and the pitter patter of hail
December and all it brings
and freckles that don’t wash out.

They miss the dim yellow light
that shone through your teeth
that made them into thieves
filling them with blood
that stole my pulse.

And your eyes like wine
that brought the stars upon them.

My hands can’t think straight anymore
they fumble and cry.
Fingernails bleed,
they cling to one more hour of night
They forget to breathe
starved of air until they crack open
joints swollen and askew
Unable to point

My hands are now stained
with henna and tears
as they itch with longing

August, 2017