Eve, may you leave the skeletons of snakes behind.
May 8 o'clock come before 9,
and despite a promise to yourself to wait,
start pouring the wine and write.
Write eloquent, hallucinogenic, and as the wine chimes in --
laugh as you catch the words growing larger on the page.

Eve, may the wind crawl in, rustling the blinds.
May the paint on your latest oil dry,
and when the relevant kids ask you what it means,
tell them you're just happy to be here,
and daydream of being carried by the cradling wind into the amethyst sky.

Eve, may your memory serve to keep the delicate moments stored.
May you recite the holy luck and beauty of each calendar page,
as a 4-year-old recites an entire storybook
her gentle mother has read and re-read to her.
May you sleep like that child in the comfort of fervent love.

Eve, may you dream beyond the cosmos, beyond God's heaven.
May you find rest in your own empyrean visions.
Let the beasts of the field and the birds of the air take on new names --
the monikers you choose -- let the the writhing oaks and the monuments of man
bow in a celebration of your quiet grace.

And Eve, when you wake, may you wake like a giant.
May you be 60-feet tall and still in awe of all you see,
incapable of escaping the grandeur -- indulgent only in empathy.
May the sons and daughters of this sphere raise hymns.
May the sons and daughters of this sphere find only solace in your shadow.

Eve, may you take another notice of me.
May you tell me apart from Adam, Alan, or Allah.
The rib you returned -- I never wanted back.
So, when the calendar runs out of pages, I pray the past is past.
In an act of divine forgiveness, I exit counting you as a friend.

i said “im not going to marry you”

and you said “oh. do you want to get married?”

and i said “…no”**

i was standing in the shower in someone else’s house when i told you i couldnt be with you

and you said “please don’t do this”

and i said “i’m sorry”, like i had to

and i said “goodbye,’ like i had to but i didn’t have to i didn’t do it because i had to i did it because

there’s an itch

you get in your feet

when you realize that all you have to do to be happy is, do

what makes you happy

and i decided i wanted that more than you.

last night when it rained i remembered what it sounded like

when it rained on your tin roof

and how you slept with your breathing shallow,

in case your grandma with dementia walked in and

called you by your grandfather’s name again. i remembered

the day you put the latch on your door to keep her out.

i bet you kept it there to keep me out too.

if i were still there

i’d be riding my bike to you now,

down that long stretch of littered sidewalk,

past that path where you smoked joints behind people’s yards at night

into the driveway by

your house, frame light enough to be carried away by wind

but the wind came

and it blew me away instead.

if i were still there i’d say happy anniversary, i love you so much

if i were still there it would be a lie

but i’m here, so it’s not, because

i can only love you from here, seeing what a fool you are

forgiving you anyway

so happy valentine’s day to your aforementioned  buddy

and happy valentine’s day to the high school that almost killed you

and happy valentine’s day to whatever music you’re making

whether its metal,

or blues,

happy valentine’s day to the safeway cashier

who knew what we were up to and the school theater whose floor we slept on

and the kisses snuck between sleeping bags

and the arms that for three years were my home

in your bed, by your star wars curtains

light every morning, breakfast with your mom

who added me on facebook

and could never spell my name

february last year i was in italy rinsing you out of my mouth

this year i’m in israel eating salt and reading old emails

taking a bath in an empty apartment

wondering when

you’re going to cut your hair.