I reached out and held your hand.
"Mom...I'm pregnant"
I felt your grip loosen,
and I was afraid to meet your eyes,
wide with shock, with tears glistened.

You stood across from me,
arms folded, ready for my big news.
"Dad...I'm pregnant"
Your gaze fell and you wouldn't speak.
We both knew it was too soon.

"Congratulations, Miss McNabb.
You're pregnant!"
I know it's true and yet it seems so unreal.
Baby Lost...
...And Baby Reborn.
I don't know how to feel.
Excited of course,
the obvious choice.
But also scared, and maybe paranoid.
My little Oliver Sparrow never made it
out of the womb-
taken too soon.
I tried to forget the pain
but pain is much too real to be waived.

There is a baby inside of me.
I have seen it on the black and white screen.
I couldn't help the laughter that bubbled,
when I saw its little hiccups and kicks,
the way it seemed to dance inside.
I believe in my baby, I can't resist.
My baby is strong, that much I know,
just from seeing its dance-
almost like a restlessness to be free.
My baby is loved-
more loved than I could ever hope to be,
and yet I wish I had more, more, more love to give.

My baby is here, and real,
and so is my desire to be the best mommy.

Baby Lost...
...And Baby Reborn

Sleeping together.
Naps together.
Breakfast in bed naked.
Leaving little notes everywhere.
Good memories,
bad memories faded.

Getting sick together and
eating chicken noodle soup.
Laughing together until we cry then,
crying together too.
Finding our happy place
where the bad memories faded.

Cuddling in a dark room
where only "us" exists.
Knowing each day that you
are mine and I will always
be yours and this,
this makes the bad things fade.

Moving in with you
is my dream come true.

I stopped writing-
a poet at a loss for words.

You did this to me.
Yes, you, reading this.
Your beauty left me awestruck
with no relief.
Please...
Please you must believe
how unashamedly I've fallen abrupt
into the snares of love.
I haven't fallen nearly as graceful
as your features fair when you
tilt your head to the side.
My love is just as intense though,
as your focused eyes upon the words I write.

It is true,
from the first time your gaze
stumbled
on my humble scribblings of rhyme,
of times gone by,
my heart has swelled and shivered,
knowing that I have your attention.
But then I don't really have it,
do I?
You don't really see me,
watching you from behind the text.

My love, forgive me.
I make such abrasive claims
of love and loyalty,
but they fall flat, you see-
like the screen you read my words from (I clench the taut strings of my heart as I look up at your illuminated face).
I'm stuck here and that
is what tortures my soul, already sore.

You can never be mine
while I'm trapped in between
these lines,
these rhymes.

I'm trying to find a way out.
Until I do,
just know this:
Everything I write is for you-
so I can see you once more.
I don't know how,
but I will find a way out.

I love the way you smile
when my poems have a happy end.
Then I just feel so awful when
I make you cry because my poems soured
like my bitter heart that hates its apparent destiny.

I'm stuck here.
But the hope of seeing your face again,
returning to read my latest work,
that is what keeps me going without fear
until the end.

I'll find a way out
and then you'll see me for real.
The poet trapped in the book,
waiting for you to look and see
between the lines.
You'll see me-
the poet my beloved reader has, and will
set free.

This screenshot of you, I always see:
waving over your shoulder,
smiling at me.
I've got this fear in my mind like,
what will you do when I
run out of things to say?
Will you stay?

Will you stay when I have nothing to say or do,
will you stay awhile,
just until I think of a cheesey joke
to make you smile?

When nights get longer
will holding me asleep get older?
When I forget another happy birthday,
will you stay?

Just tell me what you need and
God, I pray I can
give you everything.
Anything your heart desires.
Just tell me why you look so tired.

This screenshot of you, I always see:
waving over your shoulder,
smiling at...

There's a fear in my mind that
one day you'll wake up and find
what you're looking for in somebody else.

But you're smiling at me...

No matter the tears or
swearing or fears, I know
at the end of the day,
you're walking in through that door
and I know what you'll say,

.......And I love you too.

Roses are red.
Violets are violet.
The trouble with that,
roses aren't always red.
They can be white
or black, blue, yellow,
pink, orange, you name it.
Roses aren't always red.
And we shouldn't expect them to be.
I made that mistake, you know.
I only expected red roses.
But then a beautiful violet rose found me.
I held it close despite the
thorns that pricked my side.
I can't explain the remorse I feel
when I think about all the colorful roses
I must have overlooked because of pride.
And how long my own violet rose
must have been waiting, silent...

Roses are red.
And violets are violet.
Yes they can be,
but don't forget
all the wonderful colors in between.

Love me like only you can.
Your love is a taste I crave.
Kisses melting softly on my tongue,
while I melt softly in your arms.
Sleeping softly in your warmth and calm
until morning light comes.
In the sun's fresh rays spread upon our bed,
we'll love again like no one can,
my dearest and most beloved friend,
slipping softly into infinity.

I told you that I was born to fly.
You said "Let me be your wings."

I told you that I'm broken inside.
You said "Come to me for healing."

I told you that my walls are built too high.
You said "Let me climb over, please."

I told you that I'm lost and I cry.
You said "Let me dry your tears and guide you from suffering."

I told you that I hate being surprised.
You said "Let me prove my love won't change for anything."

I told you that I need you in my life.
You said "Let me be your everything."

I told you that I love you.
You said "Together and forever in love,
let us be."

Opera was the first
emo music.
.....
what??
The feelings, the passion, insatiable thirst,
depict the soul's greatest longings
and the things that make it sick.
But the best opera I have heard
is the desperate cry for things
lost,
stolen,
griefs beyond the heart's capacity-
a vessel, on violent waves, tossed.
Opera is an art with reckless abandon.
Opera: My hat's off to you.

A love like ours,
sweet and memorable,
was written in the stars.
But as time goes on,
do we become unstable?
Written in the stars...
What happens then
if we forget how to read?
Another love story
tossed into the nearest waste bin.

Sometimes I ask myself
"Why am I still here?"
but then you take my hand,
I can almost almost taste your smile,
so sweet, my dear.

Everything I hold dear
is in my hand,
in my hair,
the smell of you lingers
and I have to sigh through the tears.

You have stolen my heart,
enraptured my soul,
and devoured me whole.
My mind is tethered yet torn apart
when I think of you and what you've done to me.

Just you wait, my love.
Not much longer, someday,
when I have taken your oath and sealed it
I'll steal you away swiftly.
Swiftly we'll fly across oceans, my dove.

Take my hand,
hold my head to your heart
and remind me that it's mine.
Each beat whispers as soft as desert sand
*"I love you and we'll never be apart."