Once upon a time ago,
A phoenix dared kiss a dove;
Together, wings beat with love,
With ador true, passion slow.

Phoenix of autumnal light,
Hearts collide and lit aglow.
Together, they could both grow,
Through open skies they took flight.

Once they moved in tandem, now
Still as a set sun they lay.
Easy love they did portray;
Though turtle promised no vows.

Here the anthem doth commence:
Love and constancy is dead;
Died it did when Phoenix fled,
Dove still feels a loss, immense.

Phoenix from ash is reborn;
And perfect as they hath seemed
(Like nothing could come between)
The dove from ash remains torn.

Feathers of flame and fury,
Fervor, passion, sparks ignite,
And ashes spread like a blight,
Below, dove burned to bury.

Reciprocity a dream,
With singed wings, dove died on dirt,
What remained; a numbing hurt,
Death of love is now the theme.

For True Love does not exist,
Phoenix burned the whole night through,
From turtledove they withdrew,
Love is only reminisced.

So heed this tale as warning:
Wise the owl who stands alone,
Or eagles heart, cut from stone,
Now the crows stay in mourning.

you aren't gone, I tell myself
just a game put on pause
a phone call on hold
I see the back of your head
a side profile in a crowded train
the faint smell of you
sweat, skin, smoke, soap
I'll join you in the eventual
when my particles disperse to night
into pavement and dirt and sky
connected to the stars
that have always smiled at you
where I long to be

i love you more than i’ve ever loved anyone, i think;
i love you in a way that feels important, wide open and vulnerable.
there’s a hole in my chest. gaping,
but filled all the way through.
like the stars i have purpose, i am radiating, so intense my bones rattle.

i wish you could see.

nobody writes poetry about the banal
the ticking clocks and coffee drips
clicked buttons and phones ringing
white walls with greige carpet
waiting in lines for daily tedium
this is where we spend most our time
existing in between the magical
skimming edges of something beautiful
our existence both mundane yet unparalleled
I feel grateful for every tea ring in my mug
pages of old books I will never read
time spent waiting for replies
or watching paint dry on canvas
because this sliver of existence
brief and bland though it may be
can occur only once at this very moment
and our fleeting mortality is extraordinary