I'M MAKING nachos in your toaster oven. The chips fall in the pan without a problem. Beans, evenly distributed (if I do say so myself.) Salsa- good to go. Then the cheese. Generic brand shredded cheese blend. I dangle my (washed) fingers into the zip-lock bag, grab a generous pinch and rain mild cheddar down on my gourmet meal. And I feel the tears building. "No," my conscious scolds, "you will not cry over shredded cheese." I add another pinch for flavor, then another to assert dominance. I slide the pan into the tiny oven- triumphant! But the next task breaks me. I freeze when I try to adjust the heat setting. I hear your voice so clearly, like you're still calling from the next room: "you have to press the TOAST button, it cooks much faster."  The tears start to roll. I think about how excited you were when cheese bubbled perfectly- "just a little brown, ever so slightly crispy." We would joke about your persnickety preferences, likely a product of your superior taste. Of course, you would have appreciated anything I made for you, but it was always better when the dish matched the idea in your head...when I made it like you would have made it (if you were only well enough to cook for yourself again.) In the present, I poke the TOAST button and flee the kitchen as to not cry in front of the smothered chips. I sit on the sofa and break down, gasping in childish sobs. "I miss her," I wail to an empty house. Warm tears coat my cheeks in the air-conditioned room. I feel so small. I feel so foolish for crying over stupid, little things. I feel so... so... A bell dings in the kitchen. I wipe my sleeve across my face and traipse back to the toaster. Hand into oven mitt, mitt onto pan, pan onto table. I grab the plastic tubs of sour cream and guacamole from the fridge and a spoon from the drawer that sticks a little when you try to open it. I pick the non-wilted bits off the head of lettuce and rinse them under the faucet. I finish the recipe. I pull out a chair. I sit down to nachos for one.

We know what peace is
And we know how to do war
Now, let us do peace

Captivating is the boat sailing across the ocean,
Alluring are the winds blowing from the Sahara,
Amnesiac are the long winter nights in my bed,
Vandalizing are my thoughts and dreams which never came true,

I walk alone and journey across the world,
I fight the thundery and cold storms of the desert,
I cuddle in my bed during the Winters to keep myself from getting cold,
And I cry as none of my hopes may ever come true,

As I walk alone the only thing that accompanies me is my shadow,
The curvy paths of the desert and the runny sand swallow me into their crust,
The blanket that I wear to protect myself acts as a shield,
And my tears that I shed they mend and teach me what its like to be heart broken.

I see you

in the stillness of the snow
that blankets the meadow

in the kisses of couples
long spent together

in the rays of the sun
that slowly rises

in the rising of the choral piece
that praises your essence

in the hollow of my heart
steadfast in beating

I see you

Stupidity tastes surprisingly like guilt.

You are empty
cups of
bottom-stained
tea
and grounds
on the counter

***** bath water
and mildew
a
mint-stained sink

You are damp
linens
drying
dishes
cigarette butts
and resilience

How you are so quiet
when I know you are
so tired
I don't know

but let me hold your head
up while you
waste your day for me
while you draw
the complex
pattern
Arabic or Spanish
pattern
and you follow it
for me

You woke me
in the dead
of night
with a tired
moan

so,
of course I
ran to
your bedside
and heard
the rattle in
your tone

I told you
that you
must breathe
deep
you must
feel it
in your
bones

and you nodded
your
exhausted
head
and then
I felt you
go.