why are we back to only ‘sometimes’

sometimes
saying you miss me, maybe
answering the phone when I call
or sometimes
calling me gorgeous

am I still gorgeous?
or am I just not as important
because ‘sometimes’
is only sometimes,
and I guess I am only on your mind
ever so often.

You were a silhouette made of the finest blood and bones.
The way you slouch your shoulders
Like you’re too discomfited to show your own figure.
Meticulous in the way you pull tobacco from the pouch
You place it in the paper, and lick it shut.
The cigarette is gripped softly by your extended fingers,
Slowly drifting up to your lips.
You held it so closely,
Caressing it with delicate fingertips
And raising it to your mouth with such poise.
You walked outside,

Light.
Inhale.

You smoked your cigarette
With grace and charm-
Almost sexually, in fact, as if you knew I was watching.
You didn’t.
Before stomping it out,
You looked through the window. Seeing me, just barely seeing you
So much so you made my own lungs hurt.

Watching You
Not watching me.
Your eyes like glass
I can almost spot my own reflection.

The taste of You leaves
A bitter burn on my tongue-
Like poison,
or spoiled milk.

But
For some reason

That poison tastes as sweet as peaches
And You
Feel as good as Paradise.

It is just too bad
That all I am left with
are memories and a sunburn.

A father’s love is supposed to be
Your first real relationship with a man.

You trust him and cherish him
Unconditionally, and he nurtures you
As he tends to your sorrows.

He makes you laugh and cry
All at the same time, and you find yourself saying
I love you
More often than just once.

He holds you late at night
When you’re troubled or uneasy,
And he is the first thing you see in the morning light.

A father’s love was my first relationship
With a man.
And while he nurtured me and cherished
Me, and made me laugh and cry all at the same time,
He also broke me.

He was my first heartache,
The way you feel your lungs
Break.  When you can’t breathe and you want to suffocate.
When your lover flees even after
Begging him to stay.

Adolescent boy or middle aged man, they always leave and
Shatter your soul
All the same.

But
The thing is,
Adolescent boys don’t know any better.

A father’s love is supposed to be nothing less than
Your first real relationship.
I just felt sorry for my mother,
Who married a child instead of a man.

It is 1:03 in the morning
Even though it does not really feel like morning
At all.

I’m writing in your book, you see
Awake longing for
You. The words escaping me
Like liquid gasoline, patiently waiting
For a fantasizing flame
Once I crawl into bed
And start moaning your name, that’s it
I can’t get you out of my head. Until I finish
I have goosebumps covering my thighs
Even though, I must say
Your hand still feels much better
Than mine.

I don’t think I’ve ever written
Of you before.


You were so easy to push left
Feelings as fleeting as your
Fascination for me.

Not much of a fighter,
Are you? It was easy
For you to watch me walk away
Not like you had much reason to stay,
Anyway.

I hope the warm weather is treating you
Well, because when the snow falls here
I sometimes think of that year
Back in high school when it snowed
Every single day.

Two thousand one hundred and
Ninety days around the sun
Well spent
It’s just unfortunate that our love
Never made much of a dent in the grand scheme
Of your life. I just hope you know
That I tried.

I swear that I tried.

Frost began to form along
The windows
As the sun sang its song, it told the moon goodnight
And the sky fell dark.

The fluorescent-lit hallways became bleak
As the evening passed by.
I sat outside her room with my head in my hands
My entire body sank into the floor
And I tried to wipe my face dry.

I watched as shapes and shadows came
In and out of that bedroom door
Even still
I wasn’t ready to see what I came there for.

I gained the courage to stand, trying my best
And as I walked into the room I felt more tears
Roll down my face and past my neck way down to my chest.
She sat there with a glow just waiting for me, happy
As can be.

At the time
My hair was long and tangled
Reaching all the way down my back
Compiled into a knotted mess.
So I sat

And let her play the role she was so longing to play.
I told her I would stay. I removed a comb from her bedside drawer  

Just tell me if this hurts you, ok?
Okay. – as she ran the bristles
Through my mangled blonde strands.

Ironic, because she did not have much hair at all.

I let her stroke the back of my head with her wearied hands.
I stayed for a while,
Until the nurse came in and told me
It was time to leave.

Skin like golden dew
In the midst of a
Shoreditch summer.
Your lips like Milk & Honey,
Let me have a taste of that.

Transfixed with
The way you say my name
With that language
I haven’t heard
Before.

Breakfast in bed.
In the morning
Chet Baker,

Hit play.

And tell me
Soul of mine
How do you do
That thing where you draw
The Art of Happiness
In my mind
With those eyes?