When you live alone
you realize there is
no one else there to
**** the spider.
You have to do it.

you're gone
all words
have turned to ash with you

“Are you okay?”,
my wife asks
when I cough.

“No. I’m fine.
Yes. I’m not”,
I respond,

stumping her
in the poetic irony
of words that

encompass the
yes and no
and the in between.

She flips the finger
at me and I return
the bird to the nest.

We go back to our life
and our tablets,
the drip, drip of my chemo
and I wonder about okay.

“No.  You’re fine.
Yes. You’re not.”,
the bag stares in response.

What made
us so beautiful
Is that we
were never
likely to happen,
And here we are;
Pretending
to be oblivious
To the obvious
love waves
Bouncing back
and forth
Between
our hearts
This thing
Is a never
ending start...
Where the moments
we are meant to share,
Are carelessly
forced apart.

I'm tired of writing letters
I'll never send
expecting they'll give me clarity
but leading me to a dead-end

J'ai fatigue de lui
is how you say it in French
it's not a language you understand
so I'll say this instead:
Estoy cansada de ti
I'm tired of you
and of the energy you bring

I'll write my poems about you
in old notebooks
I'll use the pages to write letters
I'll burn
but you'll never get

We went to an art museum then to a park.
With every kiss I felt safe.
With every kiss I felt loved.
When she kissed my neck it felt good.
She likes hearing about my dreams.
She loves the poetry that I write for her.
In every way I am hers and in every way she is mine.