I am terrified
of nightfall--
A time when
I succumb--
Consume myself in
sweet revulsion--
The sun dwindles
and I--

I'm just beginning
to rise.

Do you know what infinity feels like?

It feels
Like rain rushing through your veins.
Like fire in your fingertips.
Like the scent of opportunity.
Like an earthquake is wrestling every brick of apprehensivity out of your bones.
Like a scream is stretching its arms out to reach for life outside of your body.

So you have to respond.

You have to
Drive at 80 mph with your best friend or lover when it’s too late at night to feel responsible.
Roll down the windows.
Turn up your stereo as loud as it goes.
Close your eyes and shut them tight.
Stretch your arms out the windows.
Tilt your head back.
Sit still.
And let it trample you like a stampede.

As you sit still, you must take it all in.

Embrace living in that perfect moment.
Embrace being who you are.
Embrace knowing that person in the driver’s or passenger’s seat.
Embrace love.
Embrace music.
Embrace the night.
Embrace being alive.

And let go.

I find it
startling
How much I hold onto
The poem you wrote for me.

A few typed words,
now on a tattered sheet of paper
(isn’t that just how we are—
tattered?).
Maybe it’s because all you feed me now
is a few cold looks,
a half dozen half-smiles.
But in this flimsy, poetic dénouement,
I have tangible words &
evidence of your unexpressed perception.

I hold onto your poem
  (my poem)
And won’t
         (can’t)
    let you go.

I pray that the pencil smudges from
your first draft to me
still linger on your fingertips.
May they cause you to think of me
and write me again.
Whispered tremors on wavering pages.

I pray that I’m not the only one who
loves to long for what we could have been;
the scent of your skin on mine.
May those pinings sing you a lullaby
as your window lets in that cold, cold draft.
Eyelids heavy and body aching.

I pray

You write.

I have begun to paint our portrait
like a woman in love would do;
with your hands on my waist
and my arms around your neck,
nose nestled into your chest.
But as the final touches occur,
(I save your glasses for last, for
the light’s reflections on the lenses were what
caught my eye at first glance.)
I turn to you to get them right and

You
slip
through my grasping fingers,
slick & slippery you.
I beg and I try to hold onto
your glowing face
your shining hair
your haunting voice,
but when I open my paint-smothered hands,
you’re no longer there.
Like the lost back of an earring,
I retrace my steps,
wondering where I could have possibly misplaced you
                          (done wrong),
and stumble upon the truth:
as the paint dries upon my hands, I realize
I have forgotten my name.

And as I wash my hands
(of you?)
in the bitterest of waters, I ponder
how terrible it is to be forgettable.

I leave the brushes on the easel,
the paint pots out to dry and crack,
and the canvas is left
without your best feature.

I.
Something happens
When I finally allow myself to let you see me.
You look up a little, over your glasses,
And I ache
In my disbelief that,
Like a ghost,
I felt your presence, I saw you,
But you were not
What I thought you were.
And I wish I could have touched
Your translucent skin and wavering breath,
For then I may have held you close,
If only for a fleeting moment,
Before feeling you disappear.

II.
I could have loved you.
So close to feeling like I couldn’t let you go.
And maybe I did, love you,
Because who says love has to be like
That last stubborn bit of gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe?
Can it be like those last days of a cancer patient’s life:
Terrifying,
Yet at peace with the risks of each passing moment?
No; loving someone,
Really loving someone,
Is like standing on the edge of a cliff,
Where there’s always a risk of falling,
But the view sure is
Beautiful.

Something happened when
I finally allowed myself
to permit you
to see me.

Those eyes of yours, brimming pools,
reached so far deep into my being,
drawing out emotions and thoughts I was afraid to ever show you.
Your nose just breathing space away from mine,
a breath caught in your chest;
It happened—
I let you in.

And I think you recognized it,
for that gleam in your eye let me know
that you’re in it, too.

This is but a bittersweet, diminished thing that we both hold onto,
even after the time when tears filled our eyes.

We’ll never let go, you and I.

“I want to remember you like this,” you said, as you looked at me through fogging lenses.*

And I, you, like this.

It was in that moment we allowed ourselves to gaze upon
a last tattering photograph of when we were whole.
One last kiss,
one last woven catalyst of fingers,
and I held your face in my hands
and whispered, “You are incredible.”

But we just couldn’t be.

M.
You wear purple well.
So well, I slip from my chair.
Blushing red, bruised blue.

~
C.
My hand on your face.
Why you placed it there, who knows?
Our bones feel reborn.

~
P.
Coffee dates with you:
I’m in love with our laughter.
Why’d you bring him, too?

~
B.
I can touch your fear.
I approach with forgiveness,
But you maintain walls.