well, it's been a while.
I wrote "evergreen" when
we had been together
two months;
"evergreen addendum" after
a year and a half.

it's been almost eleven years now,
married for seven.
I can barely remember
the me I was
when I wrote those poems;
the me in college,
before law school,
before the many moves.

it's funny that I knew back then
what I know now.
I don't understand
how I was so sure,
but here we are.

I'm still excited to see you,
even though I see you every day.

See? I’ve always
felt this way.
I always will.

work
undone,
i try but
my mind stops me.
too busy for life,
busy doing nothing.
when it all crashes down, i
need someone to get me going
even though i must do it alone.
i cannot expect others to save me.
eventually it’s too late to change
your personality frozen, dead.
i want to feel my heart beating
and know that i am alive.
fear is my nemesis,
the one who hurts me.
i need to stop
worrying
or i’ll
die.

It's only been one year,
five months, twenty-three days
since we met; I know I must have
sounded crazy. Maybe if I wrote
that now, it wouldn’t seem so odd.
I could have made a mistake, looked
back and felt my face flush.
I could have been exaggerating.
We could have been long gone. But
I know that it’s not hyperbole. I
know that I was right. I wasn’t just
the crazy girl – I was so precise.
That was before we’d fought,
and I’d cried, and everything felt
terrible; that’s only made me love
you more. I cannot always express
myself. I can be so uncouth.
But I know what I feel,
and what I feel is devotion.
See? I’ve always
felt this way.
I always will.

My father is sitting in the truck,
Bright red, a contrast to his sweatpants.
They are turquoise.
They call attention to us
Wherever we go.

They are well-worn, falling apart,
Their weakness reminds me of him.
Cheap, imperfect fabric
Covering his legs
That I will see less as I get older.

I distance myself from him,
His wife, my siblings,
From the bright blue sweatpants.

I want to be far from the poor,
Dingy life,
And the sweatpants - a size too big.

Embarrassed to be seen with him -
More when he had those on.
They yelled, "White trash.
Poverty.
West Haven."

My father, his sweatpants,
His crass demeanor,
Alcohol breath,
So distant.

It's only been over two months
since we met; I want to spout
a thousand clichés.
I think my organs could
burst from excitement;
my heart would go first.
Do I feel my blood rushing?
I might be losing my breath.
Is my childhood asthma
coming back, spurred on
by your mere existence?
The tattoo artist's needle
did not make me feel
as much emotion as you do.
Full sleeves, in vivid color,
could not come close.
It is not that you bring me
pain; rather, you bring me
so much joy that my body
can barely contain it.
It makes me terrified.
I know I trust you, but
do I know if I can trust you?
I want to, I need to;
my brain screams that you
are that mythical creature --
a dragon/phoenix hybrid --
the one.
I don't know what I am
supposed to do.
I could fall apart, bones
and sinew on the floor,
from all the thoughts
in my mind.
One day, I want to show
you this, and say,
"See? I've always
felt this way.
I always will."