That night, it was scrawled in silver dust into the stars,
to brand our names into the sky.

That night, our story was written in the indelible ink of the gods,
and my favorite lipstick, and sealed with an immortal kiss.

That night, we came to life, with eyes that were able to tear
and hearts that could suddenly pump our lives' essence with renewed fervor.

That night, a romantic with an angel's smile
and a siren with a history of self- delusion became one, never to part.

That night, we fell in love.

Who is he, Who is he
The broad shouldered
Stubbly chinned
Tired eyed
He is a young man

Who is she, Who is she
The sloping shouldered
Sparsely peach fuzzed
Bright eyed
She is a young woman

Why is he, Why is he
Squishing inside her small frame
Scraping his beard against her shaven face
Marring her youthful eyes with his tiredness
He is a young man

Why is she, Why is she
Crippling her stroll with his swaggering stomps
Darkening her skin with his brunette stubble
Masking his age with her dazzling irises
She is a young woman

Who is he
Who is she
Why is he
Why is she
Trapped

The first time your mother ever hit you, you realized she has hands. You knew all along that she had them, and that they would grow cold. (You used to tease her for wearing gloves in fifty-degree weather.) Yet, it wasn’t until that moment when you felt them.

Every memory you have of your mother’s hands involves watching them. How she’d oil her cuticles before pulling on her cleaning gloves. The way she dangled her one wrist, like a praying mantis at rest, with her other hand on her hip. When this happened, you loved how her gold bangle rattled. She never took it off.

After she hit you, she told you not to call for help, or there’d be consequences. She gulped down more of the drink you had been sharing. She left the rest for you. It’s a shame you don’t like cola.

I hereby dedicate
me to you,
old to new,
one to two.
From this moment on
I give all my love,
two turtle doves,
and my Sunday afternoons.
I'll giftwrap my life
and my mind and my soul
but my heart I cannot,
for 'tis something you stole.
You, my sweet dear,
make darkness seem light
turn black into white
change morning from night
and you're something I can't be without.