I see their faces among the stars,
People I’ve loved and people I’ve lost.
I see them in the headlights of passing cars,
And the crystalline structure of winter frost.
I catch their shadows out of the corner of my eye,
I hear their voices at the end of the line.
I can’t remember ever saying goodbye.
So pass me by, and I’ll be fine.
I just need time.
Please give me time.

The man with a banana in each hand.
The elderly twin women with greying hair and stoic faces.
“Simon, Simon. Simon’s a ****.”
The man with the piercing blue eyes, loose tie, and nervous glances,
Hiding in the collar of his wool coat.
The woman with short blonde hair sitting halfway on a stool,
Dunking her bagel into a cup of coffee.
A small French boy begging his father for attention.
A French father absorbed in the screen of his smartphone.

Hundreds of faces and averted glances.
I’ve fallen in love with dozens of strangers,
Embarking on their dream journeys,
Their honeymoons, and simple business trips.
I don’t know where they are going,
And I will forget them by the morning.

In the morning
We put band-aids on the wounds we inflicted.
Wrap our bodies in fresh cotton gauze
That we will stain with regrets and bad memories.
Mother’s kiss on every scrape,
And one more for the forehead.
“Hold me,” you beg,
Then flinch when my fingertips meet your skin.
It’s going to take some time for us to heal.
Our words cut like daggers
In the night.

I wish that I could say
That I’ve moved on, that I’m okay,
But we both know
That you’re the one who walked away.

I wish that I could see
What it is you used to mean to me,
But I think I know,
And I think that you would agree.

I wish that I could touch,
Standing tall, not as your crutch.
But I think you know
That we’ve lost too much.

I wish that I could give in,
Feel the love we had again,
But we both know now
It was only sacred sin.

twenty-one years ago

the man’s body 
became a 
corpse.

sentence by sentence,

line by line,

hundreds of poems 
lost

to the waste bins of editors

and abysmal post offices.

no carbon copies.

gone forever.

he would type it up again

and again

and again

until it lost all sentiment.

twenty-one years ago

he pushed us all away,

and still we run.
and still we hunt.

He spoke precisely, with pinpoint accuracy, stressing each syllable perfectly, pronouncing every letter as needed. It seemed as though the dictionary flowed from his tongue. It frightened people, it intrigued others. He stood with broad shoulders and recited 18th century poetry and spoke with such confidence, never second-guessing, never pausing. The first time he laid his eyes upon her, language in all sense of the word was void from his body. His tongue shriveled up and died before he could even think to move it. His shoulders slumped. Only then did he know that he needed her.

I don’t love you anymore.

I love hot cups of coffee, and cold cups as well. I love feeling summer grass between my toes. I love long showers. I love curling my hair until it frames my face with red vines of ivy. I love my bed in the morning, before the sun peeks through my curtains. I love petting dogs as I pass them in sidewalks. I love eye contact with pretty strangers in coffeeshops and bookstores. I love the echo of an acoustic guitar in a small room. I love trying new food that my mother didn’t cook when I was a kid. I love the one dress that makes me feel beautiful. I love the voice of the skinny English kid in the concert venue. I love fireflies in the summer. I love fireplaces and afghans and good books. I love red lipstick. I love the dozens of empty notebooks stockpiled in my house. I love maps and I love globes. I love doing kind things for strangers to see them smile. I love comfortable sweaters. I love baking desserts. I love drinking more coffee.

I don’t love you anymore.