YOU may be in the museum about cheese, glass art, bicycle history, or history of wooden bags. Not waiting for anything. And I just have time to steal travel brochures, offer a route around town, at the door of the hotel restaurant, after a lazy breakfast I chewed.

You may be among the crowds at the Arc de Triomphe monument, at the end of the Champs-Élysées. A digital screen is spread out, a row of chairs is laid out, and the big flag is flown. An ordinary man, preparing an unusual speech, that evening.

You may be in the departure room of the Frankfurt Airport, with the Arab Emirates airline tickets, disrupting the chaotic time, saying goodbye to the cold German weather, which I had previously tried to greet.

You must be somewhere, making some sort of experiment with distance and time, testing a hypothesis. And you smile, imagine the witty thing you will later conclude. And I do not stop guessing what's possible.

we can’t say we like each other
so we drink ***** cranberry out of the same cup,
a pale substitute
for kissing.
we can’t say we like each other,
so you picked a leaf to put it in my hair
and kept a piece in your shirt pocket.
we can’t say we like each other
so i listen to your favorite band
and you take too long to say goodnight to me at the top of the stairs.

i can’t say i like you,
so i will say that
ireland will be lucky to have you.
and after that, ohio.
and after that, wisconsin.
and i will think about the night we sat outside talking at 3 am
and not about the literal ocean
that is about to come between us.
not about the way
you’ll hold the hand of a pretty irish girl
and forget all about me.

if i could rewind time
i would meet you ten weeks ago.
i would tell you i never want to spend time with anyone else.
i would bring you out to the soccer field
and we will look up at the stadium lights
as if something inevitable wasn’t about to happen.

we can’t say we like each other,
so we’ll say goodbye tomorrow
and stuff the things we wish we could say
under our tongue.
i will thank you for lending me that book.
i will wish you a safe trip.
i will not mention the piece of your guitar string
in my back pocket.
i will not say
anything.

We fell asleep in the sun.
The next day, your hand was still outlined on my back,
but you were gone.

TWO loves had I. Now both are dead,
And both are marked by tombstones white.
The one stands in the churchyard near,
The other hid from mortal sight.

The name on one all men may read,        
And learn who lies beneath the stone;
The other name is written where
No eyes can read it but my own.

On one I plant a living flower,
And cherish it with loving hands;      
I shun the single withered leaf
That tells me where the other stands.

To that white tombstone on the hill
In summer days I often go;
From this white stone that nearer lies
I turn me with unuttered woe.

O God, I pray, if love must die,
And make no more of life a part,
Let witness be where all can see,
And not within a living heart.

day draws to an end
a half crescent sun lies o'er
the western sky line

You brush the hair
Out of my eyes and
Your soft fingertips
Leave a tingling trail
Across my forehead
like ecstasy,
But you can't brush my hair
Out of my eyes
Because that was how
He saw into my soul and
I closed that door
long ago.

You hold onto my hand
With everything intertwined
Our bodies, our minds
And I'm warm like
A child sleeping on your chest
close to your heart,
But you can't hold my hand
Or body, or mind
Because that was how
He stole me away and
I escaped once
but will never again.

You call me honey
And it rolls off your tongue,
Sweet and sticky
With a taste of promise
And it sounds like forever,
But you can't call me honey
Because that was his name
for me
And despite your intentions,
It burns through my memory
Like acid rain
And I've been hiding inside
For too long
to come out.