It wouldn’t be love—
if it fit too clean,
if it waited
where you left it,
if it didn’t ache a little
in empty rooms.

It wouldn’t be love—
if it never
fell apart
at the seams,
if it never asked for more
than what we had to give.

It wouldn’t be love—
if it didn’t question,
if it didn’t fade,
if it didn’t,
somehow,
find its way back.

I am—
an unlit wick,
a sparrow unseen
in a flock of starlings,
a smudge,
in a trail of erased steps.

No one claims
the air I move through,
as names fall away,
unspoken—
a shadow too faint
to take notice.

I am—
and I vanish.

The crowd breathes
indifference,
dissipates—
a broken branch off a tree,
a blank page
torn out of a book.

I was—
now vanished.

The pears
bend the
crooked branches—
flushed
and drowsy
with sugar.

The juice waits
for something—
for its skin
to be bruised
for a mouth
to bite in
and when done
waiting—
suffer the wind
do what must
be done.

Teaching right from wrong
for a world made kinder—
a fork in your road.

Act 1

The play Dry Humor
was a success—
people laughed,
gasped,
clutched their chests
at all the right moments.

Then, Act 2

The fall
was not scripted—
the crack of bone,
a fractured femur
was all too real,
too sharp,
cutting through the lights,
the crowd,
the silence.

They called
for the understudy,
told them
to be ready.

The director
leaned in—
You know what it means
when we ask you to break a leg,
right?

Speak the word [fɔːrˈmɪd.ə.bəl]—
standing tall as a mountain,
unwavering with reverence and respect
and unparalleled demeanor.

Dire le mot [fɔʁmidabl]—
avec la caresse d’une brise,
pour mettre tranquille un coeur
dans le silence d’un abri fidèle.

Speak the word
and take up the sword—
dire le mot
et prendre le bouclier.

Pour elle,
fille de clan—
je prendrai les deux.
For her,
precious daughter of the clan—
I will be both,
un ami [fɔʁmidabl],
a [fɔːrˈmɪd.ə.bəl] friend.