well my poem for you is short
there's nothing much to say

because of you,
I can stand in the
middle of a maze
in the bermuda triangle
in complete darkness,
inside the twilight zone,

still
never lost

we were up watching the sun rise,
the sky turning shades of a disco
ball; we watch through the blinds
the morning appear; the fathers
and 6 am runners snoozing their
alarm clock while we laid pinned
against the cotton sheets, drunk
off the summer haze, we became
restless of this life style, we were
young, eager like a young boy
sneaking into an R rated film, we
dipped our bodies into freedom
inside glass bottles and the mouths
of red eyes and blank stares.

summer is a fog of nights, vertigo
making promises on the backs of
people's necks and on the wrists
of our old friends, we promise we
will keep in touch, we will write
letters, we will call when the nights
get heavy, we take an oath to hold
forever in the palms of our hands
like a little girl clenching onto the
hourglass sand as she runs to her
father,

running with everything except the
fear of time running out, that is freedom.

like an old dream, I stand in
my fantasy saying "I have been
here before."

old friends pass by an aged street
fathers and mothers missed till the
holidays inside worn out homes,
former professors and previous
neighbors all fleeting through the
same corners, "I have seen you
here before."

when I saw you, when I reminded
myself of all the street yelling, all
the cursing through the phone, the
door shutting, the plates breaking,
the walking home alone, crying,
when I saw you, when I reminded
myself of a time across the river,
when we sat on the line between
naive and forever, when we had
nothing to lose yet
everything to gain,

like a familiar scent in your new
apartment building, or an old
song from your childhood, when
we find familiar again, when we
pass by our adolescence, we hurry
a quick smile, we set up our kind
eyes, ask a simple question, be-
cause if we learned anything from
old dreams and old friends, its we
never have enough time, not even
in the past,
never will
and
never have.

the sun does not set
automatic

trees of autumn do not
wither away its feathers
immediate

nor do the formation of
old souled clouds, or
the birth of flowers or
even death, even death
nature rots, and molds,
and decay, and spoils,

it all fades.

the childhood of lovers
consumed with these
slow deaths, through-
out the seasons, years
teach a simple moral

when the phone calls
become shorter, when
the meetings are more
meaningless, when the
plans are rescheduled,
they can blame the stars
for never just leaving,
always a subtle wave, or
a whisper goodnight, then
fading into someone else's
window or balcony, (they
have heard this story
before)

you called me and I called
back, you said "we don't
talk much" I agreed, I had
to go and I hung up before
you could've even say bye,

and that's kind of how its been for a while.

hopelessness is a fish gasping in oxygen
I take in the air but I refuse to call this
breathing and I refuse to call it dying.
I call this a desert; an eternity missing
the shoreline, missing the ocean wave
tango before leaving with the moon. I
refuse to call it foolish to hope I can be
more than a carousel ride of mistakes,
a revolving door of regrets. "I am more
I am more" I whisper to the moon.

Hopelessness is losing all your senses
and believing in love, or music, belie-
ving you can dance with the shoreline
one more time even with the saltwater
in your lungs, even with the ocean
waves pulling you back because

"I am more, I am more" the moon whispers, and
you believe him.

the blinds cast
shadows of shapes

that remind me of
your everything

they taunt me with
the lining of your arms,
your spine, your neck,
your side, your every
thing