Dear Someone,

     You are not one person. Yet, in a way, you feel like one. You are every person that I have ever loved. You are the beauty of friendship and the peace that comes with kindness. You are a terrible, wonderful pain that comes with separation. Yet, you are also the hope that is the harbinger of the future. You are the inbetween.

     If I could sum you up in a word, it would, honestly, be love. Although, you can only be love by the sum of your parts, because I feel as if not one of your parts has been significant enough to fill the word with meaning. Love, therefore, is to me as an elaborate dream exists. I feel it, I lust for it, yet I have nothing to hold; no sand or clay to pinch between wanting fingers.

You are the smell of autumn. Your perfume lingers on the boundaries of my memory, excited occasionally by the fallen leaves or the prickling of the cold, whenever it should pass me by. I remember how I associate you with the remaining rays of sunshine, warmth that would press tightly against my white skin, yet somehow the memory always ends with the cold. The days grew short, the rain saturated my worn shoes. I felt nothing from you except a recurring message… think of the joy that you feel when I appear, hope for me when you walk down the lane. Yet, like the musk of fall, you would only appear seasonably. I could not sustain myself on a passing breeze, no matter how enchanting or magical. It has been almost a year and I can’t remember your scent.

You are a footprint in the sand. I remember the feeling, the refreshing cool of the water between the smallest particles of earth as they sunk and swam about my toes, creating the perfect impression and fit around the arches and outlines of my anatomy. I sometimes wonder if the print is as perfect as I remember, but when I try to touch my foot to the mold it is imperfect. Time has warped the space that I once created. Waves have destroyed the path that I walked. Many of my footprints I can no longer see. Others I try in vain to recreate, as the tide rises towards my ankles, and I find that I have returned too late in the day. You are something that I yearn to see again, but cannot. You are too deep underwater and I must move farther up the shore.

You are a beautiful white flower that blooms only in the springtime. By the time that I found you on the tree in my front yard, you were already in full bloom. Your beauty astounds me, even now as I think of you in the middle of the summer, but I missed you bud and I missed you open and blossom. I could only watch as you stood, shining in your final hour in the sun, and cradle you as you fell from the tree on which you bloomed. I could only think of you fondly as you returned to the earth. When it is Spring again, surely there will be more white flowers in my yard, but you are an original creation and no other flowers will be you.

You are a floating seed on the wind. You are captivating. You charm me, but you are irratic. Often I have reached out, hoping to hold you in my hands, but by the time that I notice you, you have already floated well beyond my reach. Often I forget about you until that enchanted moment that you float across my path once more. I am spellbound, inclined to follow you. No matter how far your journeys I am convinced that I will be able to meet you whenever you rest. I am foolish, and you make me silly. My arms become clumsy and cannot embrace you. I lack the grace necessary to capture you, but sometimes I find myself sitting and waiting, hoping that someday you might fall from the wind and land in the palm of my hand, instead of the palm of someone else’s

You are a dream.

You were

Someday is.

Faithfully,
a girl.

Some kind of craftsman is working at his bench
Peeling ribbons of soft wood under a dim lamp
He watches the growing pile of discarded strips.

The timecard is now an electronic monitor
An old woman at the factory wishes
That it were instead a thick piece of yellowing cardstock
So that she could use a hole punch.

Somebody’s daughter is dancing naked in the yard
A business man drives by and hopes that somebody will photograph her.
He is remembering the blush on his lover’s face
When he first saw the photo of her and her sisters
Flat chested, unclothed, and splashing together in the bath.

The waitress from town has left for school.
Somebody there is brushing the hair away from her eyes
And wondering whether or not it is a good moment to kiss her.
Meanwhile there is a young man sitting in his regular spot in her diner
Wondering if her eyes really were the color of the winter grass
He is contemplating joining the army.

A wiry beggar is sitting outside of a convenience store
He asks for a cigarette and gets not even a sideward glance
Later he asks a thin, young thing for a few dollars
Once she is gone he goes inside to buy a pack
And smokes them immediately.

There is a funeral processional going through town.
There is a woman at the end driving with clenched hands
She feels guilty because of her anger
But the traffic is making her late for work.

You may now kiss the bride.
And he does.
The older women are crying.

Without any of these things
It seems we would be left with nothing,

but an insatiable thirst for punctuation.

oh what a curse to be a human
for humanity would never suffice
to dance on the breath of eternity
or to write your name with a ray of sunlight.

if I had only the life of a heartbeat of earth,
I would whisper to God
asking him how an architect could design
the color of a passing breeze.
I would imagine it to be blue.

If I had only a few more hundred years,
I would plant my roots in a rocky hillside
and let them grow so deep
that I would understand the pain of being cut down

for as it were,
I could only guess at the width of love
I never would dare to write a sonnet about silence
I could try to inhale the scent of fire, and smell only ash
I am lost in a sea of fabrications

oh what a curse to be human
if I ever learn to live, I will already be dying.

but even if we must part…our love is perfect
and I will wait
in pondersome silence
if only accompanied by the most earnest, passionate emotion
and the inevitable beating of my heart.