There are locks around my heart
That you know how to play
So well, my maestro,
Like the ivory and ebony keys of a piano
Waking to sonnets
Resting in the repose
of your melodies
These are the chords within,
Tucked away for centuries
And yet, now loosened to be
Fine tuned by your fingers
That touch, stroke and sway
Me into you
The beginning of
Our masterpiece.

You're like a snowflake
drift and shiver, melt me down
with your cool kisses.

It was so much easier, making decisions in
the dim lighting of that corner
neighborhood bar, whiskey burning down my
throat, your hand on my waist--a dare to
wandering eyes, and a promise just between
us as we stumbled our way home. It began to
rain and my hair was curling, but I didn't
care in the lamppost light of the street
then, church bells tolling midnight
somewhere in the distance. Everything was
perfect that night, in the dark, with you.

I replay the hit and run of our relationship
since that New Year's Eve night
with every first smile since, every first date
every first kiss--
they all remind me of you,
butterflies fluttering among bitterness
in the pit of my stomach.
(I refuse to be left again. Flight wins every time.)
And they all watch, so curiously confused
as I leave them at an intersection,
(like you left me on your friend's doorstep)
the light blinking red, the same color
of the taillights of my escape
as I speed off into the night, and try
to forget you, your embrace, your touch
even as I mimic who we used to be,
over and over, and
(as my heart breaks) over again.

Dear Leslie,

This year was the first in ten years that I didn't tell you happy birthday, that I didn't even speak to you at all. It was an unremarkable day, special to very few (since you share your secrets with only a handful of souls) and I know, before me, it wasn't special to you. But our friendship made it so, our beautifully, tragic, amazing friendship. All the trips to the movies and running down Main St. in the rain. Scarfing sushi in your car while we talked about our day. Buying too many Redvines and eating peanut butter cups until our teeth hurt. . .those memories were treasured on your birthday.

For a decade, we celebrated every December, our dark and twisty version of Gilmore Girls as we mooned over Hollywood stars and wrote out all our fears and worries else our hearts exploded from the weight of having to contain them. (Because, God knows, we couldn't tell our mothers anything without receiving ridicule.)

Things changed after she took her life, and you called me in tears. It was the day after your birthday and we hadn't seen each other in awhile and you were away at college, but that didn't change the fact that I was your first and second and third call after you got the news.

I picked up the phone, and everything changed. She was gone, and had made a mausoleum of your birthday.

I hated her for it. I still do. If I believed in magic, I'd bring her back just to **** her for you. For stealing all the birthday memories we'd shared and built together, a fragile fort against the destruction her very presence brought in your life.

I'm sorry she ruined your birthday for you, and I'm sorry we haven't spoken in months. I hate the distance between us, and it feels like a deeper chasm than any heartbreak I've experienced. Blood may come and go, and so may romance. But our friendship was supposed to withstand all of that, because we had each other's backs.

I still have yours, even though we don't speak anymore

Even though I didn't wish you a happy birthday this year.

Forgive me.

Con amor,
Your Friend

Your fine eyes, so like
an impressionist painting
there but not, fleeting.