I think the hardest thing to remember is that everything ends.

When times are great and I'm lying in your arms its so easy to remember
That you're going to leave.
I count down the minutes until you'll have to get out of my bed, pull on your shorts, pack up your bag,
And go.
Its easy to look at it in terms of time
And know exactly how many seconds I have
Until you leave.

But when the insides of my stomach are clenching and aching,
When there's nothing in the world that can make this pain stop,
It's hard to remember that this too will end.
This time there aren't a set number of minutes to count down,
But it will pass.

My friends tell me, "He wasn't good enough for you"
My roommate says, "There's only so many times he can make you cry before I write him off."
My mom says "You've been down lately honey.  Is everything okay?"
I start to perk up and think, You're right. I'm glad he's leaving.
Only a few more minutes.

I follow up with telling them that my psychic says I haven't met the love of my life yet.
I don't yet know the man I'll marry,
Which makes me feel better.
And then she says, "Have you seen her recently? How do you know?"
And I'm back to tallying the minutes left in my misery.

Its hard to remember that this pain will subside
That it will stop hurting so badly.
That I will stop thinking about you every moment of every day.

But then take me back to the flip side where things were perfect.
When we spent our first night together-
The build up,
The flirting,
The giggling-
To when we were finally in your bed, locked in each others arms
And you said to me, "This isn't going to be a one time thing."
Even then, I knew our time was limited.

I know eventually I will leave your bed permanently in the morning
To go back to my place.
And I know eventually my life will continue on without you in it.
Without our fingertips locked around each others.
But its hard to remember that
Its hard to want that.

And now you're leaving
And I so badly want to say the things
That you're not supposed to say to the guy you're *******.
Will you ever talk to me again?
Can I still text you 24 hours a day?
Can I have your address?
Can I call you?
Do you want to call me?
Can we talk about doing more?
Can we talk about visiting?
I don't want to get a drink or coffee when I happen to be in town.
I want to visit for you.

But I'm afraid those are going to end things even quicker.
I know its going to end.  That's not the question.
I just want to hold out for as long as possible
With my fingers caught in your hair,
With your arm grasping my waist,
With our texts stretching late into the nights when we can't be together.

Maybe someday we'll meet in some city
And get that drink or coffee I want more than
And rekindle this flame (5 years?).
Maybe I'll text you one too many times
And you'll stop responding (6 months?).
Or maybe we'll meet other people
And forget about our short moment of bliss (1 year?).

Until then I will continue to tally how many minutes have passed
And I have left to suffer
Until something, someone, fills this aching hole
Until there is a happier ending.

I knew I was going to marry you
the first time we said good-bye.
It didn't feel like forever
(although I cried like it was).

I have this reoccurring dream
where I'm sitting in a bar
surrounded by my work friends
talking way too much shop for
a Saturday evening on the town.
You come right over to me
like we've been planning to meet here all along,
and coo, "Hi honey, long time no see."
You hug me so hard I want you to squeeze me
out of this life
to escape with you.

I have this other dream,
(not unlike ones most girls have
about their wedding days)
only mine isn't like theirs-
all planned out except for the man.
The only thing I have figured out
is you and the color of my dress.

We keep saying, "Not the right time.
Not the right place in our lives"
and I know its at least ten years off
for me.
And my psychic says I've never met the man I'll marry
but I think that's just because I met you so young
and we both have a lot of changing left to do.

You left me for your girlfriend today.

I feel filthy
as if I have gone back packing
and haven't bathed in two weeks, but
I know no spigot can clean this away.

I feel guilty
even though I didn't know
she was even someone in your life
worth knowing,
but even then I still knew
something.

I even resigned to apologies
because I'm sick of feeling
like it's me,
and you use poetry to calm me,
which seduces me even more.
"I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul."

I want to poetry back at you
because the conversation
was just as good as the ***,
and I want to scream,
because I've done it again,
home-wrecking at it's finest,
but I know where this story ends.
*(I've read it one too many times.)

I think I'm supposed to feel bad about what happened,
but I don't.
I think I'm supposed to hate myself
and blame it on the usual shortcomings,
but I don't want to.
I'm smart, pretty, and sophisticated
(you agreed).
I can be loud, blunt, and occasionally a bit
obnoxious,
but I can't seem to find the words to tell you
that I enjoyed it, you.
Your life story is interesting,
your insecurities are shocking,
and the *** was fabulous.

“Just write,” they told me.  And I did.
My smooth cursive running over
each ****** page.
I wrote run-on sentences
without any punctuation that ran on for days without
a single breath of air and when I finished
I spleled wrods wrnog
and didn’t even try to fix them.

Then I began to write about you,
and no matter how hard I tried to stop,
the words flowed out of me
like they were meant to be on paper all along.

I wrote of the time you dragged me to your beach house
on Long Island
even though I was sick and miserable.  
You lay in bed with me all weekend until finally
I made it out to the beach.  
I went home sicker and redder than I had been before.
But you loved me anyway.  

I wrote of the time when we tried to drive across the country,
but we got bored somewhere around Harrisburg.  
Aunt Jay’s Pancake House made the trip worthwhile.  
I can still taste your buttery pancakes and
my gooey French toast on my lips.  
I wish we could go back there just one more time.

I wrote of the day you said goodbye-
the first time that is.
I didn’t get out of bed for three weeks,
you know,
wondering why you even called to see if I was ok.
When I finally pulled myself up and out
of the stuffy, black room
I was surprised the sun was still rising
and the world was continuing on without
us.

I wrote of the day you said goodbye-
the second time.
You didn’t call this time
or write
or give one sign that you were hurting so badly.
I could have fixed you.
I could have loved your pain away.

“Just write,” they told me, “And all of your pain will disappear.”
They don’t understand, though.
I’m not worried about my pain.
I want to go back and write away yours.

I'm confident!* I scream.
A few people on coffee runs turn my way.
I check my watch and climb up on my chair.
I'm confident! I scream just a bit louder.
I am a confident woman!
I few more people pause from their lunch breaks
and shoot snide looks in my direction.
I climb up onto the table where I had been enjoying a Philadelphia roll
a few minutes ago. I take a deep breath.
I'm confident! I yell so the whole street can hear me.
I am! I don't care that I'm here alone! Or that I'm not my perfect weight!
I am confident!
I'm breathing heavily, glowing with the success of my impromptu performance.
I feel a tug on my pant leg, and below me is a weathered woman
who reminds me of my mother with the concerned wrinkles between her eyebrows
and the history in her eyes.
Get down here she snaps at me.
Get off that **** table. Now.
I hop down and sit at the table where I had been before my performance.
You can't just do that.
Do what?
Lie!
I don't answer right away, and I look around
to see if someone put her up to this. What?
Hunny she takes my hand You're not confident if you have
to prove it to me ok? So let's stay away from the tables and proclamations today.
As my mouth gapes open
she waddles off the restaurant patio and melts into the urban daytime rush.

No one bothered asking my opinion
when the water tower bent and swayed with the wind.
We sat up there for long hours,
waiting.
For what, I am not sure.
But I stayed there with them during those hours and when finally
the question was raised,
as it always was,
no one asked me
nor did I care.

Your eyes reminded me of cliche things like
endless oceans and
romantic sunsets and
smelling like your cologne.
Sweet kisses and
surprise tulips (my favorite).
Breezy days when I forget my coat
and wear yours instead.
Moonlit walks and
candlelit dinners.
But your eyes also remind me of
that
that
God, I can't even say it.
Your eyes remind me of that man.
And I know it isn't fair
but they remind me of the man who raised me
and that scares me more than you'll ever know.

I call last summer
the "Summer of Smoothies"
for the usual ones made of fruit
and for those kind of men,
you know,
the smooth-talking types.

I liked the thick ones,
especially with yogurt as a base
and with some sort of berry.
I would sip them slowly while swinging
my feet off of the old suspension bridge
that stretched wide across the quiet gorge.

I liked the tall ones too
since I never liked dating any of the short ones
who made me feel like
I belonged with that river in South America.
Not tall, dark, and handsome, though.
Tall and nerdy.
But I couldn't tell you why.

Every morning you would run past me
as I day dreamt in the sun on my bridge
and I wondered
why you never changed your route.
Every morning I quietly sipped my smoothie
and hoped that
it was me.

I'm not sure what
If anything
Gives me the authority to say this
Yet
I can't help but notice the color has left your cheeks
And the starlight is missing from your eyes.

On any other day
I'd keep this to myself but
The sun is beaming down and
There is no trace of its life
In yours.

I want to wrap my arms around you
And cup your head in my hand
And whisper
It's going to be ok.

I want to set down my newspaper
Toss my coffee in the garbage
And listen to your story.

But like every other passenger
Waiting for this train
I will ignore your sorrows
And hope that tomorrow will be a better day.

it doesn’t take a genius to understand grammar
“i before e, except after c”
to know the difference between
a comma
and a semicolon
but words in parentheses should not count.

books
letters
poems
songs
parentheses parentheses

used to explain something
an after thought
an “i didn’t think of this before
but i have now.”
and words in parentheses really should not count.

it does take a genius to understand people
or more specifically you
and why you did it.
(i love you)
(i’m doing this for you)
(i’m cleaning up)
(i’m better now)
words in parentheses just should not count.

You’re the only one who could ever
pull off a double chin, my dear.
It frames your face
permitting asymmetrical shadows
to bounce off the loud bump of your nose
and stories to lie with in its folds.

And yet, here I am
Modern day Hera
Betrayed
And still standing.

Like the ruins of an abandoned civilization
Still strong, still beautiful,
If I may be so immodest.
Limestone having crumbled from fortified walls.
Columns having fallen and tumbled down hills
Caked with dry mud.

Like Chrysanthemum petals manipulated
By the clammy fingers
Of bored flower girls.
Dried flakes littering
Lacey white dresses.

Oh, what it could be like
To take vengeance on my
Zeus
The destruction around me
The broken bouquets.
Would I feel power?
Strength?

Or would I still be standing,
Beautiful, and
Alone?

‘Twas a normal Sunday morning
In the town of Maryville
No person knew what was to come
Or whom that man would ****.

Rev’rend Winters read his sermon
And preached ‘bout happiness
They heard a pop, and then a click;
A shot went through his chest.

The gunman got the bible first
The book turned to confetti
The congregation was aghast
They thought this skit was petty.

Then they learned the awful truth
Their reverend was shot dead
Two men dragged the murderer down
To ensure he had not fled.

‘Twas a tragic day in Maryville
For those who made it out
They keep those who didn’t in their prayers
And for that there is no doubt.

True love is buoyant.  It floats and balances
On the surface tension of something unpredictable
And exciting.  It is not unlike a kitchen sponge
Used to soak up messes, though messes vary
From situation to situation.  Sponges absorb everything, good and bad,
Until they are full to the brim with moisture and purpose.  
Then, with a small action, everything is released
Into the world closing the gap between
Peace and hatred.  Sponges are ordinary household objects
That are normally overlooked as easily as one
Overlooks a secret smile exchanged between lovers.
Sponges can even be moldy but  are still beloved objects
In the hands of an optimist.  Love and sponges make you do crazy things,
Like cleaning up an entire gallon of milk with a single one
Or bungee jumping just because he is.
This may be hard to picture, love being filled
And squeezed back out especially if you are trying to remember
Love as happily ever after.  But love is give and take, some filling
And some squeezing, depending on what has swelled up inside the sponge.

She tricycles down the road
Pigtails and streamers
Flying behind her.
Tiny legs pumping hard
Taking her to the end
Of the neighbor’s driveway
Before she collapses of
Pure exhaustion.
She paints a portrait of her family
That looks more like purple, blue
And red spiders with huge heads.
Everyone is there: Mom, Dad,
Lucas, and Spot.
She plays dress up with Mom’s
Black pumps and red
Lingerie and mauve
Lipstick pretending to be
Sixteen years old when finally
She is there and she realizes
That make up isn’t all its
Cracked up to be.

I am an umbrella.
The cold rain has soaked my hair and
I can hear thunder in the distance.
I see the lightening strike the maple
Trees of Connecticut and
I can taste the garlic from my lunch,
Still on my tongue,
Three hours later.
My brain is fuzzing.  The smell
Of gasoline permeates my nostrils
Like fresh baked cookies.

And I remember.
The car flipping, taillights over headlights.
Me in the front seat.  We landed
In the ravine and sunk to the bottom
And here I am.

I walk across the busy highway
And reach the divider where
I find them.
I reach for the flowers and
They smell like rainbows.
Blythe, a moldy card reads,
Take care in the afterlife.
I place another next to it
From me that reads,
You will be sorely missed
Hasta luego.

I walk back across the highway
Headlights staring into my eyes
And open the front door of my car
To drive away.  Moving on
Makes the pain go away and
If you forget, no one remembers
But I will until you come home.

I called the ending to this story, you know.
After all, I am an author derived from you.
The love, then betrayal.  As if I wouldn’t understand it
All on my own.  So I knew what the last page said
Before you read it to me.  And you lied.
You pretend the hard covers keep in your secrets
And hide your past but now even I know better than to be fooled.  
Every movement you make flips the pages
Right back to where we started.  All over again.
Back to the beginning of this section until I know it by heart.  
And I raise the question, how do we end it?  
How do we begin to end it?  We get close with forewords
And bookmarks.  And even closer with anecdotes
And dedications.  But I need more.  No more action novels.  
No more thrillers, romance, sob stories or fantasies.
I need non-fiction.  Real words.  Real feelings.
Real people.

Signed,
The Daughter You’re Losing