Those gloved hands, concealing tears of
The lady opposite. I ask her
For a moment of her time.
She looks through hair, through me.

I simply point –
To the passive, low-slung disc
Out there; a massive levitation
Breaking away from the burned horizon.
Its proximity and its haunting face.

It falls away, behind a tunnel.
‘A wink,’ I tell her. ‘A hint.
Nothing lasts so long
That the grandeur, out there,
Recalls it. The snow reveals the weeds.
The wind disrupts their seeds.
It’s all momentum, smooth and sure:
Less leads on to more – breeds more,
Breeds more.’

She doesn’t know I feel the same; that
The train and I are on our tracks,
Both inexorably drawn. And
If we alight at dawn,
We’ll see that the journey lacked
And open the doors – reborn.

Nobody ever found a dead seagull.
They plan their final flight.

Nobody ever felt comfortable waiting in line.
They're too far away from the table wine.

Nobody ever got you, Rachel.
They can't chip through your glassy eyes.

Nobody ever got rid of a lie.
Their deceit  simmers into a wish.

Nobody ever married me.
They leave me for Jesus Christ and civil wars.

Nobody ever heard a juke joint singer hit a perfect note.
They applaud for black culture.

Nobody ever found a dead seagull.
Their feathers disintegrate under the ocean's weight.

Nobody ever felt comfortable at a wedding.
They sit curious about the contents under the wedding dress.

Nobody ever got you, Rachel.
They try to pull you down from your high heels.

Nobody ever got rid of their parents.
They settle for calling long distance.

Nobody ever married me.
They only nod at my longwinded history.

Nobody ever heard a fine-combed politician stutter.
They picket sign and roll their eyes.

Nobody ever found a dead seagull.
They control the waves with ghostly wings.

Nobody ever felt comfortable holding a newborn.
They look at porcelain skin like a loaded gun.

Nobody ever got you, Rachel.
They can't afford your grace.

Nobody ever got rid of a former lover.
They avert their eyes as they stroll by.

Nobody ever married me.
They complain about their fiancees.

Nobody ever heard a mother say, "Everything won't be alright."
They find out when the rent comes due.

Nobody ever found a dead seagull,
and they will never find me and you.

I remember the jelly bean jar
perched next to the owlish librarian
in my school when I was younger.  
One lucky soul would win a prize
for pulling the right number of jelly beans
out of an air still filled with fancy.
I can’t remember who won the prize,
and I can’t remember what the prize was.

But I guess as selfish minds are wont to do,
I remember the act of guessing.  
It was a childhood of guessing,
and I wonder if any of those guesses were truly wrong?  
When the engine of innocence toils away,
any solution, however fanciful,
can’t be false in a world that finds falsity
in far more veritable places.

I digress back to that jelly bean jar,
packed full of sugar,
and to a young mind,
full of promise.  
To a mind such as mine,
a mind akin to my classmates
who shared my sugary desire for that jar,
any guess was as good as the other,
as long as any guess was your own.  

We clutched ordinary pencils
scribbled on ordinary paper
with our own extraordinary numbers.  
In the basket went these figures most accurate.  

Days during the week passed
with those store brand jelly beans
mashed against each other,
childhood memories turned ordinary pages
wrote with ordinary pencils
until that singular, self-sure number
mashed against pages turned against it.  

However strong that memory of numerology
in a room full of words is etched in my mind; no trace
of the end of the jellybean contest remains in my ledger.
No trace of the disappointment of losing out
on such a treasure trove of tooth decay.  

But I guess this is the way of the mind,
it tends to trace out the positives
while it remains filled with youthful levity,
no weight is imbued in innocent minds,
and so tragedy, loss, and disappointment
float away past untroubled eyes.  

But time rolls on and much like the crushed growth
under an ever-rolling stone,
our lives start to fall harder on softened memories.  
Our lives harden with our heads,
and those days of living out short-lived fantasies
fade with jelly bean guesses.  
So as we mature and feign to seek the truth,
a small part of me keeps a singular page earmarked
for a time when the truth no longer weighs
                                                                              down the air with half-true deceit, and a mind long
abandoned
will return to grasp fanciful ideas
out of an air that’s still light enough
to evade our youthful fingertips.

Eye lashes flicker
a shared urgent interest
parting - dancing smile


.

Dear World,
I apologize
if this seems like a cheap attempt
at romanticizing
something that is
already dead.

but i must at least
try and put down
my feelings of joy and love
before they are all too quickly drowned
in the sea of bitterness
pain and hate.

I must first write
about how gentle
his kisses were
how strong and tender
his touch was,
how much love i saw
when i looked in his eyes.

(before i turn and call him,
devils spawn,
son of a gun
worthless good for nothing.)

I should mention
his words of love
his meaningful
promises
and how i needed
to believe him

(before i say out loud
how deceitful he was,
lying pond-****.)

I'll try to tell you,
how it felt to be
loved by him
and to love him back
how strong we were
how we both let this go

(before i dump the weight of guilt at his door,
and sum it all with its his fault)

i will say now and here,
how much I love him
still
and how much i miss him
and wish him well
and want him back.

(then for sure i will walk out tall
and proclaim my disenchantment
and wish a plague of a thousand years on him,
and tell the world i do not love him
and never will)

so world again forgive me,
for this confusion
that i add
to your foray of days
but i must.

They are strangers now, separated by their worlds and walls.
There is no chemistry, no spark, nothing special.
They are simply strangers, sharing a couch.

One is autumn, one is spring;
one likes talking, and the other? Listening.

If walls could talk, they’d weave a tale so tragic.

In the beginning, he was sun, and she was moon.
At the ending, she was running, but he was leaving.

In the beginning, there are many things.
There is music, and laughter, and broken strings.
They have cooperation, and commitment, and promises.
Her mom gives them glasses, his mom gives them dishes.
She has her charcoals, he has his guitar.

At the ending, close to the ending-
There is his guitar, her laughter, they’ve broken things.
And that is all that is left.

Promises and glasses, dishes and hearts.
A year of trying and losing is written on the walls;
the wallpaper- peeling, the curtains- ripping.

He clears his throat, she stills- hoping.
“I’m sorry,” she hears, and it’s okay.
“I’m sorry,” she hears, “that it’s ended this way.”

I’m sorry, she hears. I’m sorry, that it’s ended this way.
I’m sorry, she hears. That it’s ended this way.

“It’s ended this way?”
“I’m ending it this way.”