AT NIGHT, THIS PLACE

IS YELLOW-LIT AND DESERTED,

A STRANGE COMFORT FOR THE PENSIVE,

FOLLY FOR THE HAUNTED.

YOUR NAME

IS ETCHED AT THE BACK

OF MY HEAD,

HIDDEN, IN A GRID,

WHERE MIERZWIAK WOULDN’T

FIND YOU.

AT NIGHT, ATENEO AVENUE

IS YELLOW-LIT AND DESERTED,

I REMEMBER:

"THIS IS WHERE I SAW YOU FOR THE FIRST TIME."


I FLICK MY CIGARETTE AND MAKE UP

A GOODBYE,

LIKE JOEL TO CLEMENTINE,

AND HEAD BACK

TO WHERE

THESE YELLOW LIGHTS

CAN’T FIND ME.

From an abandoned blog
Linked to a forgotten email account
I remembered abandoned emotions
I'm not sure I ever forgot.

I shook you gently, wake up, I was hungry again.
I said I was eating for two, you obliged and got
up from your side of the bed.
We had slept early that night, the neighborhood
was still up when we woke. We walked, the air
whiffed of the usual street fare over hot coals.

I asked, if it was alright to eat at this time of the night.
Thinking you’d object, I pointed out,
I was eating for two and you smiled a bit.

I was eating for a child you said we couldn’t keep.

If after afterall,



I'd still take a stab at writing about you,

then I guess nothing has changed

from that psychedelic view.



It's barely noon and I feel that one

February where we stopped seeing that

view, a scenery so changed by oceans

and timezones and the ever changing me

and you.



After afterall,

these little peace signs still hang

around from my  neck, then I guess it's

the same as wearing my heart on my

sleeve, and your name's still on it.





*Reader, do not listen to William Fitszimmons on a Thursday, when you're on a deadline.

it's always dark blue around you,

but i like it,

especially when you're curled up

in the corner, trying to be awake

as i blabber incessantly.



it's pitch black, i figured,

when you pull up that drawbridge

just when i have gotten past the moat,

i don't like it when it's

pitch black, like your scary beautiful

scuba dive.



because i can't swim.

i look at you
and a taste in my mouth
tells me,
"i like what i see."

Revised version of a note that I was able to write after sharing beer with a friend and learning about her story. The topic came up because U2's With or Without You started showing on Channel V and she told us the song was playing when they were, finally, going their separate ways.

This note is for 9 years, for a marriage then for zilch, and for anyone who has lost a marriage.

And to you, my friend: life is still good.*



Nothing could  have been

more apt

than Bono singing who

he couldn't live with,

or without.



After domestic trials

and errors, we

were telling each other,

that hereafter

I shouldn't live with

or without you either.



Nine, it's a magic number,

to count the years we had been

together.



Two, was you and me,

reduced

to me and she.

We were,

just you and I,

bound

by papers signed.

We share,

a last name I

can no longer make use of.