The exclamation.
Then lack of
salutation,
or signature,
signifies loudly.

I get it.
You got your message across.

Even though I asked for no response,
you responded out of politeness.

So I responded.

But a conversation
was not what you wanted.

So you shrugged email
ettiquete off and sent
back two lines of text,
almost like a text.
It wasn't even formatted.

Do you hate me?
I dumped you a year ago,
so you must hate me now.

There is no room in your new room
for our fond failure.
Only success happens.
Mistakes are holograms
we can't change yet
linger over
again and again.

Perhaps for you,
it's just easier to
sprint through
hey! hi! how are you?
Finish,
and move on.
But I can't.

I loved you.

I am not just an ex;
I gave you the locket around your neck;
I don't want you to forget
me.

I want you to remember
every moment in 3D color.
Be the intermission
to your originally scheduled programming,
the star of your dreams,

I want to be that girl you think about sometimes.

The one that got away.

I mean, not in a torturous way!

Just someone deserving
of more
than bitterness and blasé.

I find it impossible to be anyone but myself.

There's no one here
in the cool dark air.
Everything's clean and tidy,
for visitors presumably,
but no one drops by.
The bar is stocked,
the light is ambient,
tea's a brewin',
jazz is playing,
and I look cute.
But I am tired.
Tired of seeking
the company of those
who ruin this mood,
this solitude.

When success finds you,
it leaves you orange,
then brown,
then blue,
green, anew,
with a shiny wax coating,
impenetrable, ready to rustle,
wind shaking you loose.

After no one helps beyond helpless words.

After no one understands, but congratulates anyway.

It can make you feel high and alone.
Somewhere sacred, secret, and beyond reach.
The sun you yearned for so eagerly in the distance, ignoring those crumbling around you.

It's September 8th.
The expiration of
desert summer
and I'm pruned,
waiting to emerge
as the triumphant
success story,
from what my future self
calls a faded daze
a lapse of judgement,
a growth experience,
or the onset of quarter-life crisis?
I can't make judgements.
I'm too busy profusely sweating,
parched,
puddle jumping in pools,
capturing liquid
sunshine in my palms,
throwing them up
each morning the sun rises,
and I wake,
to an uncertain expiration date.
Wait!
before the sun
sets behind me.

Never lie to the same poem twice
save it for the next one
or better yet don't tell it at all
for a lie no matter how beautiful
it may sound
or sweet it may taste
rolling off the tongue
will always leave behind
a sour smell
to linger in the mouth
of the past and present
and more often than not
carry knives into the future

Never kiss a new lover
with an old prayer on your lips
it will not bloom
to love or lust
only heartache and embarrassment
be alone and lonely and miserable
until there is no stain or trace
of old fire burning
or cinders glowing
or ashes still smoldering
forming the face and the name
that no longer cares
for your prayers

Never tell the truth to a kiss
that whispers only lies
when speaking of love
and dances with serpents
that tend to planting seeds
of venom and lust
in the skin
and the core of pleasure
that will only wither
and rot on the vine

be patient with yourself
be kind to yourself
time and life will pass
and pass too quickly
and pass too slowly

wait and listen

you will find
what you need
as it finds you...

unexpectedly

and then you can
kiss the love
that whispers in dreams
while only speaking the truth