can i tell you a secret?
some days, when the sky is its darkest hue
and the clouds are a light gray-blue
i write poetry.
it's all about you.

We sit at the cliff's edge
and skip rocks made of stardust
across the universe of time.

She spoke
with half-smoked cigarettes
and lilting cursive scribbled over last night’s letter’s return address,
her bags packed with only a backless dress.
Nails dripping black and red
blood and paint indistinguishable
in the darkness of the winding alleyways
zigzagging her heart.
She was truly, unendingly lost
in the mazes of her mind
as she traveled backwards with a string
lazily trailing after broken stilettos.
Yesterday’s rain still dripping from empty window sills
and illuminated by lanterns lit with fireflies
found solace in her silent tears
for they were companions,
cut from the same paper-thin cloth.
Maybe a goddess had worn it once,
but those days were long gone
when she lit it aflame with a cigarette
fresh from her lips.
Desire was never a question —
this she had learned from the fire
overtaking her overflowing mind —
and yet it was soundlessly spoken
on empty bottles
not yet broken and swept up by the sea.
Only the blind man could see her now
just as the deaf girl heard her cries
and thus she remained unanswered.
This, however, she did not mind
for being lost was no longer not a choice.

Soft hearts beat quickly in time.
One, two. One, two.
I stare at her lips, then press them to mine.
One, two. One, two.
I curl up against her, thinking “This is a sign.”
One, two. One, two.
Then deepen the embrace, and let our bodies intertwine.

Your tender words caress my face
and seep into my skin.
Soft soliloquies, quiet rhymes, rhythmic patterns,
they swirl in my mind
and are painted behind my eyelids while I sleep
or as I think of you and smile.
The whisper of your fingertips
reminds me of the brush of your pen
and the tumultuous emotion from each word
brought forth from your mind.
Your poems of love impart a sweet nostalgic ache
for the passion I'd never felt
until your words flooded my thoughts
and allowed deeply seeded flowers to grow into a full bloom.

And I think
maybe it is not you I fell for,
but the sweet, sweet, song you sing.

I am high on life,
drowning in euphoria,
and drunk on loving.

If my teardrops were wishes
life would be filled with the sweetest of kisses.

The river of time continues to flow,
and yet here I stand -- unmoving.

I search for my reflection
but it is here no longer.

It wasn’t “I love you”
but at least it was goodbye.

Ask a question:
Let it dance on your tongue
like a child ballerina —
full of stutters and jumps
and hope.
As it spins circles
through your mind,
tears holes in the soles
of your shoes,
wait.
Let it fall swiftly and fast
so quiet it’s barely a whisper
if that at all.
And with no response,
let the hope fade
with a few tears
and maybe some scrapes
or bruises.
Just as the child,
pick yourself up
and walk towards the door,
allowing one glance behind you
before the soft click of it shutting
is all you can hear
and your locked up dreams
will never even know you were calling.

No words
slip from my tongue.
No words
emerge from my fingertips
as they race across the keyboard.
No words
spill from my mind,
trace the recesses of my brain,
leave my lips with the taste of butterscotch.
I have traveled far and wide,
from one pole to the other
then so far west I'm back in the east,
but I still have no words.
No words
to describe this feeling,
the one at the back of my throat every time I speak,
the one tingling at my fingertips whenever I press them against the keys,
the ones zigzagging my mind from dawn to dusk and even after that.
No words
to describe the tightness of my chest,
whether from the way she tucks her hair behind her ear
or the weight of today on my shoulders.
The thoughts --
I chase them, but they always slip away
just as I can feel them in my grasp.
No words, no thoughts, no way
to finish this poem
not when it's ever-flowing, ever-growing, ever-changing, ever-there.

I strung up Christmas lights on the trees in my mind
and haven’t taken them down yet.

That sweet pang in my heart
when I think of you.

As I watch
your soft limbs bow before me
giving me permission to climb your sturdy trunk
up to your leaves.

I peek through the branches,
the world broken up into crisscrossed windows
each one a glimpse into someone's world.

I'm reminded of my younger days,
climbing higher and higher
until the sky brushed my fingers
in a soft command.

I would be a sky pirate, searching
for something or somewhere or someone
until momma came outside with lemonade and PB&J
and all my problems were solved
with a single kiss to my forehead.

Now, though, I simply watch from above
content in spending a few moments alone,
just me and you and the sky.

Wind picks up, your delicate branches waving in the breeze
letting swaths of gold float to the ground
in curtains that coat the cracks in the pavement
and hide the imperfections with golden rain.

And in that moment, there is nowhere else I'd rather be.

You are a lantern
And I am but a moth,
Gazing in awe at your beauty and welcoming presence.
As if in a trance, I draw near
And bask in your warm light
Too enveloped in your grace
To notice the corpses littering the floor.
You burn my once-gorgeous wings until I can no longer fly,
You sear my retinas so all I can see is you,
And yet I can’t leave, too reliant on your heat.
And just like that, a switch is flipped.
Your light goes out.
And I am left alone with only the wreckage you brought me
And the knowledge
That it’s all my fault.

In my dreams
we share
quiet laughter under setting suns,
soft kisses in the moonlight,
and secret smiles as the stars disappear.

In the eye of the hurricane,
she dances by herself.

The world rains down on this lonesome desert plane
and we watch and wait and go insane.

Look closely,
Listen carefully,
But Do. Not. Touch.

I'm nothing without
soft kisses in the moonlight,
bodies entangled
as lips trace constellations
made with freckles on your skin.

Lost boys
Running down the streets
Cutting corners in their haste
To get away from life.

It was a shotgun wedding
and the bullet hit 'em both.

Her hand pulls me toward her,
To the light brightening the darkness
Hidden beneath my eyes.

Under the soft glow of a full moon
We run across yellow fields
Of waving grass
And forgotten memories.

We lay on our backs
Gazing at the worlds above us
Craving their darkness
Almost as much
As each other’s light.

"Icarus," I breathe
through my dreams of flying free.
The naïveté of the youngling I desired to be
was a warning sign to all that watched his descent.
It was not his disobedience that led to this --
to his body buffeted in the merciless winds and swept up by the sea --
but being blinded by boundless beauty through his kaleidoscope vision.
What more could one wish for than the all-encompassing euphoria
of weaving through the sun-soaked clouds,
of learning the meaning of freedom as you reach up
to brush your fingers against the sun?
What more could one know than wanting something so desperately
that every shiny red sign is just one more bauble for your collection
as you struggle to escape the empty abyss engulfing you from within,
as you let the feeling of bliss envelope you for one heavenly moment,
as everyone screams in tinny voices that you should listen --
listen! --
but at least you got this one second,
this one heartbeat of a moment,
to finally let the chains fall from your bloodied wrists
and spread your newfound wings for all to see, for you to see,
for once, for nobody but yourself
before tumbling to the beat of gravity's forlorn yet never-ending song.
And maybe he regretted it
and maybe I will too
but as I press my palm against the echo of the sunlit expanse
reverberating in someone else's memory,
one word slips from my parted lips:
"Icarus."

“What is a poem?”
My English teacher asks,
then barely pauses before answering his own question.
Lists of rules and reasons
spill from his mouth,
so many that he’s cut off by the bell.

I refrain from raising my hand
and telling him that anything can be a poem
if you want it to be.

The painting on the wall,
the fleeting peace that comes
from looking at the moon,
the little boy whose hands are already rough
and calloused with use.

Nothing makes a poem
but our minds and thoughts and wishes
for “poem” is just a word
but what it gives us is ours to decide.

Maybe even this is a poem,
though my English teacher would disagree.

Colors streak blue skies
as the sun makes its descent
towards the horizon.

Plunging to the ground
I close my eyes, giving up
This is where it ends

"Pretty girls don't smile!"
Those are the words of wisdom
fake soothsayers preached,
not thinking that she'd listen.
Alas... now she's cold as ice.

Living vicariously through others' lives,
but it's still not enough..

The light in your eyes
And the rain from your tears
Mix together to create
The most beautiful colors.

I beg of you:

1. Examine me with curious eyes.
Crave to sneak a look within,
to see where the treasures lie.

2. Caress me with gentle fingers --
hold me in such a way
that every touch lingers.

3. Open me, peer into my soul
and study each aspect with care.
Hold each one in the softest embrace
no matter the fright or scare.

4. And this, I ask with all my heart --
love me, treasure me, and all my parts.
For despite appearances, despite my walls,
I am not Pandora's Box.

The first time I heard you,
I already knew.
A good beat, nice melody
You were too catchy.

The first time I heard you,
my breath caught in my throat
As you were pronounced
my new favorite song.

The first time I heard you,
you were already stuck in my head
Playing on repeat as I stared out the window,
thinking of you instead of leaving my den.

The first time I heard you,
I tried to change the station
But you were playing on every one.

The first time I heard you,
I was already too deep in love
to let you go.

an everlasting love
sometimes hidden
but always there.

Blood runs down my blistered fingers
and my hands are cramped and shaking.
My pen runs dry but still I write
yet my resolve is slowly breaking.
If I give up, just die alone
and drown in my thoughts tonight
would anybody care enough to notice,
would they wish I'd put up a fight?
I was told to write out my emotions,
that they'd dissipate like lost love,
but instead there's been a monsoon
that I never will be free of.
Instead of sticking to the page,
the ink is raining down
filling even the vastest oceans
in which I'm going to drown.
So if I am gone before the morn
just know it wasn't you.
It's the ink that got the best of me,
and so I say adieu.

My mind morphed his evil grin
into a warm smile.

One day, you'll whisper sweet nothings in my ear
and I'll fall asleep to your soft lullabies
of stardust skipping stones and rainbow oceans.

One day,  I'll tell you that your eyes
remind me of the universe
and that you shine brighter than the most dazzling star.

One day, I'll reveal that I ask for you whenever I wish on the sun
and that when our fingers brush against each other,
it feels like the entire world smiles.

One day, I'll wake up from this nightmare
only to roll over and see you curled up next to me.

But as I finger the cold sheets beside my lone body,
I know that today is not the day.

All I want for Hanukkah is
for you to be happy.

All I want for Christmas is
for you to be loved.

All I want for Kwanzaa is
for you to be safe.

All I want for New Years is
for you to promise me
that you won't give up this year.

I lie on my back,
gazing at the vast abyss
stretching above us.

Laughing, we dare each other
to jump into the crystal-clear fountains
and gaze at the bright blue sky
obstructed only by the Eiffel Tower in the distance.
Our splashes alert the security guards and we run,
unable to keep from giggling as they yell after us.
Stumbling towards a field of lush green grass,
we collapse against each other and grin,
comfortable in our warm silence.
As twilight nears, we splurge
on freshly-baked pastries
and gelato the color of emeralds,
huddling against the cold
in our soaking wet turtleneck sweaters.
Fingers intertwined, we run through the city streets
until we don't remember which way we came.
We slow, panting through our smiles
as we take in our surroundings.
We're on a bridge, the dark skies and glistening stars
reflected by the rippling water below.
We stop a vendor packing up for the night
and write our names on a golden lock.
We hook it to the bridge and throw away the key,
watching it sparkle in the moonlight
before sinking into the water
and drifting to the river bottom.
She cups my face in her hand
and leans in close
so the swirling fog from our breaths meld into one
and warms our flushed cheeks.
I gently pull her against me and close the distance between us,
our lips speaking more than the most beautiful poems
and our love as infinite as the skies stretching above us.

No.
She's not made of glass.
She's not worried about breaking.
She's not delicate.

Stop.
You don't know how she feels.
You don't understand why she doesn't want the spotlight.
You don't get what it's like.

Don't.
She wouldn't want you to talk about this.
She doesn't want them to know.
She won't want you to tell them when you have it all wrong.

Please.
Stop making assumptions.
Stop breaking her trust.
Stop talking for her.

Go.
This isn't what she wants.
This is why she's hesitant.
This is what she's afraid of.

I'm running out of time
running out of time!
running
out
of
time!!
Just one more line
one more line!
one
more
line!!

I'm running out of pages
running out of pages!
running
out
of
pages!!
Just a couple more phrases
a couple more phrases!
a
couple
more
phrases!!

I'm running out of ink
running out of ink!
running
out
of
ink!!
Just one last time, let me think!
let me think!
let
me
think!!

I'm running out of escapes
running out of escapes!
running
out
of
escapes!!
Just let me fix one last mistake
one last mistake!
one
last
mistake!!

I'm running out of time
running out of time!
running
out
of
time!!
Just let me write one last line
one last line!
one
last
...!!

I am lost in the rain,
and the rain is lost in me.

You whisper
drunken promises
through red-rimmed lips,
eyes softer than the fading sun.
Like the kisses on my face
and the shattered pictures on the floor
they'll be broken all too soon.

As sleep overcomes me,
my unsteady hands loosen their grip on the locket
and it slides through my fingers
and falls to the ground.

So much to do, so little time with you left..

His mouth forms a wide smirk
as the others laugh at his words.
But it isn’t funny.

She lowers her watery eyes, glasses slipping
down her nose.

Book pages flip
in the breeze that picks up.
She loses her page.

His mouth opens, sharp daggers sliding
from his lips
Their laughter echoed by the trees.

She gets up, stumbles, falls.
Lines of carefully thought-out words tumble to the ground
his foot stretched out in front of her.

Their hands reach for the pages.
Fingers wrap
Around worn bindings.

They play tug-of-war,
trying to pull it out
of each other’s grasp.

A rip.

Papers scatter in the wind.
Snickers fade with the footsteps
as her eyes rain tears.

I bend down.
Papers fill my hands
one by one.

She looks up.
The sun lights up her clouded eyes
as she takes the faded pages,
in her grasp again.

I'll always be there to cheer you up
even if the only way I can do that
is by bringing myself down.