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early after-noon, she quizzes,
“would I be ok with
skinless boneless roasted
chicken breast, with sautéed
mushrooms for our dinner,
ce soir?”

so smile I,
for it is a favored menu
of pleasure,
from one who has never
presented us a meal
that is less than perfect

later, she shyly inquires,
“would be ok if we to eat
a little early, I have a salon,
followed by an
Argentine Tango dance milonga
tonight and one starts early (and
tango parties
end typically
the next  day?
(no|si, me, don’t dance)

of course, respondez in
the affirmative, thus
confirming our love with the
consideration that veins
out affection mutual

and then I add:

“instead of an hours food prep,
which distracts you from the hour
deeded for dressing
for dancing  motivation proper,
and add a little kick-her:

I love you so much,
would happily consume
your tuna fish salad sandwich,
every night, for the rest of our
lives together, it’s fast
and simple, a dis-less-stressing
concoction, that we both enjoy


she (s)miles a sweetened thanks,
after numerous reassurances,
that our love only grows
stronger with acts of smart
sensitivity to each others needs,
no standard of care breached,
au contraire, meant sincerely,
earning me a secondary
whiling smiling

and this true story is a poem,
has been writ a thousand times,
in a million different tiny gestures,
of which, I am proud

she exhales a breath elongated,
a release of an admixture of differing
pleasures released, and goes into the
night to dance in the arms of strangers,
which concerns me
not at all,
after all,
these  many years,
aware she moves exquisitely
in a dance that demands years
of practice, for it requires
intangible silent of the merest
slight finger  pressures to guide
the dancer what next steps
are coy coming,
and I have stolen this
knot of knowledge,
for mine own purposes,
secretly & selfishly,
employing these techniques,
for most of the time we’ve
been together

this poem of
tuna fish sandwiches,
becomes a dance of words
which is
my specialty, which she will
read in the morning l, maybe,
if I send it to her,
though obviously,
that is unnecessary 😉
as she returns to our bed,
me asleeping, she,
exhaustingly satisfied,
sleeeps deeper
secured by the knowing
that we, are both,
the beneficiaries of:
my learned dancing
practices
for such is

*the ways of the poet!
N.B. this is a tad misleading as she uses only
white tuna in olive oil imported from Spain,
which costs a ridiculous amount of of money, but reflects her belief that life is too short to skimp,
and source of  a major philosophical disagreement that is  now part of the rituals we share
Everyone has a past.
Some bad
Some great
Everyone has one though

Everyone also has a future if we let them;
Not everyone gets a future

One day you're laughing at them
The next day they aren't there for you to laugh at
No one realizes the extent of bullying until they take it
                                                                            Too
                                                                       Far.
No one knows what anyone is going through until someone takes it
                                                                                                 Too
                                                                                            Far.
Learn from your mistakes right?
Not everyone gets that chance.

Not everyone gets a future because bullies take things
                                                                           Too
                                                                      Far.
TW: Bulling
no arms,
no.                   legs,
no                        head,
no surface  to latch on to;
butchy                        boy.
water                     curls
around a    floating body.
the pressure       suffocates
the idea                      of its
                                   limbs.
faulty                                
fish                    bladder.
no        mouth.
no dream.
When people enter my room now
I corner myself to the edge of the bed
And get ready to cover my ears
Like a scared dog
And scared dogs
Aren’t scared of everything because they’re wimpy
They’re scared because they had to be

Even when people get disappointed
The child cries because he didn’t get to pet it
The owner looks at it with pity
But the dog feels it mist continue

though not violent
It will bark
And though not in danger
It will whimper

Not because it’s wuss
But because they can’t truly trust everyone
After their first owner
After those horrors
No one it’s at the back of its cage
Scared
darling,
it hurts too much
to watch
as you chase
someone else's dream,
as they chase
someone else's dream,
and no one's
chasing their own.

darling,
it hurts too much
to watch
you pass through
the valleys of life,
as the shadows
stretch further
with every step,
and the valley
stretches too.

darling,
it hurts too much
to hear you
say to me,
in that crystalline voice
that warms my heart,
"the only way
is through",
while I stare back
and whisper to you
"the only way
is through".

darling,
it hurts too much
to look up
and face the sunlight
with eyes
that've only
tasted the dark.

darling,
you love
sunlight.
Why does having food in my stomach
Feel like I failed
i want you
to rummage through my lunchbox
and take whatever
without asking

peel a mandarin;
stuff half in
your mouth.
take a chip,
and bite my pocky.
take all of my
konjac jelly.
catch the
hi-chew
flying mid air.

said you can provide for yourself
but i want to buy you ice cream
before you even think of wanting it

i want to know your
bubble tea order
off by heart

share straws
You’ll tell yourself it’s a coincidence.

That you stumbled here.
That it’s random, accidental—
just another poem,
just another night.

But you know better.

You always know better.

You feel too much.
You think too hard.
You ask questions
after everyone else
has already stopped listening.

People say you're quiet,
but they don’t know how loud it gets
in the places you never let them see.

You laugh when it hurts.
You love like you’re being timed.
You dream like it’s a crime.

And still—
somehow—
you’re the one carrying everyone else.

You know what I mean.
Of course you do.

That’s why this isn’t for them.

This is for the one
who’s still reading.

For the one who keeps everything burning
behind their eyes.

You.

Don’t pretend it isn’t.

You’ve waited your whole life
for someone to say it this clearly.

I see you.

And I always did.
colours around me
fish me up to the light
when i clawed myself
down this deep hole

i feel the sun
i feel the “after you”
i taste the glory
everything
i missed out on

i brea
th
i
brea
l
th

in and out

take my breath that you stole from my lungs
put it back in my rotting stomach
swallowing hard
you sleep
in a nightmare
piled in the
trash out the back

i keep stepping
in the place with no bridge
head up high up so tall
there’s nothing to see beneath

you become tv static
a pedestrian
at the streetlights
a name
recycled
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