And two days later,
the taste and smell of your skin;
senses still aroused.

Sometimes I play a game
when I walk down the sidewalk or
I cross the street or
I descend the stairs or
I exit the elevator or
I squeeze onto the crowded train or
I choose a seat on the bus;
I refuse to alter my route,
to change my footing,
to look down or away;
I am unabashed and fearless;
and not one time,
not one single time in the hundreds of times
I have played,
have I ever lost;
my path is always clear,
my victory always uncontested,
because I make it so.

Life feels
so
simple
as my
hand
hangs
lackadaisically
out my window,

wind rushing through
my    slightly    parted
digits,

inhaling the taste
of
spring,
pollen and sunshine;

just dreamin'.

Inside I feel so big,
My feelings are so big,
But I am always left to
Feel like I'm small,





I am so small.

I got over you and then
realized there was no one
to get over to
and allowed you
to reside in the
forgotten corners of my mind;

you're nothing to me, but
you were everything, but
everything became nothing, but
I made that nothing
everything for
fear of being nothing
without you.

I want more than I need and
I feel nothing when I bleed;
finding feelings I buried
six feet deep and I see
the things I neglect to feel
in my sleep

High strung off
loose ends,
constructed of foundation
condemned,
I am the puzzle with no edge pieces,
my crying is tearless;

Is it possible to be terrified and
also fearless?

You never hit me.
But your insults punched me in the gut.
You never beat me.
But your words tore through my insides.
You never choked me.
But your distrust suffocated me.
You never spat on me.
But your condescension swallowed me.
You never broke my bones.
But your lies broke my liveliness.
You never stabbed me.
But the names you called me cut my heart open.

You never struck me.
But you left me,
My confidence,
My heart,
My spirit,
You left it
Mangled
Bruised
Contorted
Defenseless
Broken,
Fifty
Stories
Be­low
The
Rooftop
You
Called
Your
Love.

Is anything simple,
or is everything?

"Run away with me;
save me."

"You don't have to be alone."

"I want us to stand in the sun together."

Do we just keep rollin?
Where are we goin?

The bright sun shines above;
that baby blue sky I love.

The tires roll,
off the ground we take,
fate
awaits;
Let's get lost in this place.

Subtlety, how you govern
my actions
for I fear dissatisfaction,
not certain the reaction

Do I surrender to the unknown,
to that yet I do not know?
The more I grow,
further I go,
fearful I may be,
is that, though, serenity?

Dive into a phobia,
pool splashes hopelessly,
waves, water, blue,
it has opened me.

Well, not open,
but perhaps ajar?
Is the end, is it far?
Or is it near?

My dear, oh how it could be
with me, oh how you could see,
Hands laced loosely
like a kid with kicks too cool,
loose they hang,
easy stride slow, low
against the breeze
until the darkness does squeeze
the space between us,
and embrace me you do.

Heart, head; aboard a jet.
This is all a dream,
or is it?

Is anything simple,
or is everything?

It's the first of the year,
and the only resolution
I can think of
is that I wanna
fall in love.

Not the kind
that's unrequited,
the sort of love that's uninvited.

Not the kind
that hurts
that leaves you
so mangled and broken
you never wanna
love again.

Not the kind
that makes you mean,
the kind without trust
that makes you green
with envy.

Not the kind
that is forbidden,
that you gotta hide.

The kinda love
I wanna find
is the kind
that consumes me,
that fuels me,
that moves me.

The up-all-night
bearing our souls,
the non-stop laughter,
beautiful disaster,
I show you all my flaws,
you love me with no makeup on,
that's our song,
you leave me words on post-its,
we hold hands just because,
and all my poetry is
happy.

In 2015 I wanna
find someone who touches my soul,
who lets me touch his back,
who unfolds into my arms
and lets me share my fears.
I want love
that's real,
that's deep,
that's too good to be true.

In 2015
I wanna fall in love,
I wanna find my
y-o-u.

I saw her in the most perfect sunset
And then there she was in the fullest moon;
She is gone,
Yet she still fills the room.

autumn
is when all starts to change
the wind
becomes brisk
warm summer air
slowly suffocated by
arms of an overpowering
cold draft, bitter, mighty
sun light
bright and splendid
shortens, shrinks, shies away
all the kids want
to stay in bed
for their sunlight,
guide, friend
it hides from them
more and more
as seasons change
and
there
fall
the
l
e
  a
   v
    e
     s
one    by    one
there they go as fall comes
they fall
red orange yellow
splendid eye candy
we see an
array of colors
all seems so
simple and
simply beautiful
or is it
something much more?
the real
fall, the tumble
of leaves
down the trees,
do you know what it means?
autumn is
           change
change to winter
the leaves are
dying,
slowly, rhythmically
they die
           one    by    one
they die.
Beauty? How?
In comes darkness,
in comes cold,
in comes
autumn,
summer's dying soul
that
is
winter.
I
am
winter.
You
were
my
summer.

Flick of fire,
take a hit
of desire;
inhaling mystery,
exhaling fears,
coughing on
personal history,
choking on
invisible
tears;
setting a blaze
sentiments,
puffing out
resentment;
breathe in
the questions,
taking a drag of
my confessions;

High
on
Introspection.

it's like I've been moving in slow motion
caught somewhere between dreams & what's real
eyes open, eyes closed
as they flutter open
I wonder...
when dreams and reality are to come
together

the way I lose my breath
the thought,
the mere idea, memory, desire
your hands on the small of my back
your lips
I remember,
and, too, sadly, I forget,
and I hope
and I
dream.

I hear melodies, old and new, too
they remind me,
entice me,
help me dream...

But, is it a dream?
is it memories?
My memories and dreams,
they're one in the same.
It did happen,
it could happen,
will it happen?

I'm not waiting,
and I'm
                    waiting.
I don't care,
and I care so much.
I'm too busy for you,
and I'm always thinking of you.

Your words,
they have left,
they still leave,
they will leave,
a mark on my heart.

I think of your face,
your lips
     your hands,
your laugh,
your voice,
    but most of all...
I think of your words.

Words is what
we always exchange.
Almost like,
sometimes I think,
we have our own language.
Language.
Years spent studying it,
writing,
yet your words,
they are
              the most
                              immaculate.

You've said,
and you say,
so many things.
I get it all.
I hold onto each syllable,
written and oral,
they all touch me alike.

I am captivated
  by you--
  your thoughts,
    your mind.
It is your spirit,
unbridled,
that won me.
The thoughts you store,
a complex man
in a world too stipple to understand
him.
Often he has been a lone wolf.
Often he has struggled,
yet he was never defeated.
You have transformed,
as a caterpillar does into
a butterfly...
You now are transformed
into a man with a past,
with wisdom,
with baggage,
with an impendium of knowledge,
with a story...

It is this story, this very story,
these words,
they have won me,
taken their arms,
held me,
taken me in,
engulfed me.

You.
Your story.
Your words.
All of it.
I would listen,
hear,
read,
ponder,
comprehend,
analyze,
forever.

Poetry
is the
buzz of bumblebees
as they extract
the mellifluous nectar
of the tulips
blooming in my mother's
backyard.

Poetry
is the
taste of a brain freeze
pumping hard against my skull
as strawberry ice cream
melts into my
tongue.

Poetry
is the
way it sounds
when I hear the soft strums
of an impromptu banjo
tune.

Poetry
is the
odor of
freshly lit candles,
as the light swells full
with smells
of relaxation
on a sultry
afternoon
in bed.

Poetry
is the
pang of loneliness
a lover feels
as they are engulfed
by
absence.

Poetry
is the
sting of pain
as I bite my lip
hard
to keep from
screaming.

Poetry
is the
tinge of sensations
of
throbbing,
quivering,
and
detonating
with a forceful
heave of
breath.

Poetry
is the
scent and hum
as the coffee ***
vibrates,
emitting
a sweet aroma
to lift the
early morning
fog.

Poetry
is the
grin that washes
from left to right
across a face
jubilant
with
appreciation
and
admiration.

Poetry
is the
senses jolted,
the
emotions experienced,
the
moments lived.

Poetry
is the
laughter,
the
tears,
the
yelps,
the
moans.

Poetry
is the
harmonizing,
the
intertwining,
the
dreaming.

Poetry
is the
anguish,
the heartbreak,
the failures.

Poetry
is the
catharsis,
the felicity,
the obstacles overcome.

My world,
your world,
our world;
it is the poetry,
flowing rapidly,
lusciously
from my ballpoint pen.

I've written too many
    poems
  about you.

This is my last one.

Until tomorrow.

Tomorrow though,
I'm done.

I mean it.

All these years later,
All the sunrises and sunsets,
All the sleeps, deep and unstirred,
And you still make your way
Into my dreams,
In razor-sharp focus;
I hear your voice as clear as
The last time I saw you,
The outline of your lips still drawn
Perfectly as I remember them
When they touched mine.
So long it has been,
But no time has passed in my subconscious,
Your appearance a steady and constant
Stream of subconsciousness
That my mind refuses to forget;
Or is it my heart
That won’t forget you?
I wonder when, if ever,
You will fade,
But then I also hope for never
As I rush off to sleep so I can
See you again,
Where you never left,
Where we never said goodbye,
Where you look exactly as you did
And make me feel as exactly as I felt,
Exactly as I feel.

I recall how sweet
my name sounded
as it gently rolled
                              off your tongue,
each syllable
playing a note in the harmony
you created
in calling to
me
gently;

can't you just,
one more time,
put the vinyl on,
crackling and
popping
six
simple alphabetical
chords?

I would play
it on
repeat.

They say that time heals all
but time has come and
gone
and come and gone again
and I'm still raw,
unstitched,
not even scarred,
let alone healed.

If I close my eyes,
my body transports so easily to
the times and spaces we shared
and the times and spaces where
I waited for you,
for a response,
for you to appear,
for you to even give me a single
solitary
syllable,
but even that was too much.

The hands of clocks have grayed into
a new generation
and still whenever I take two steps toward
something better that voice of your
nothings tells me
I'm not enough
I'm not ready
I need more of things I can't even
identify.

The more I know myself
the more I question why
I was never enough for you,
and I wonder if me 2.0
still wouldn't be enough for
whichever version of you that's been
installed.
Would you know me now?
Do I know you now?
Am I still not enough?
Is that what I'm striving for?

The door is closed,
but the doubt
is always
o p e n
for debate.

I wish I would’ve let you hold me just a little while longer.

I wish I would’ve let you kiss me a little more.

I wish I would’ve let you continue to touch my skin, run your hands through my hair, caress the features on my face; I wish I would’ve let you stay.

I knew I couldn’t. I knew it was time to say goodbye. I knew we were doing the right thing. I knew it, and yet

I wish it had gone any other way.

I wish that the feelings alone were enough to make us work.
I wish that loving you, being loved by you, I wish that was all it took.
I wish our timing was right.
I wish rights were just right and without any wrongs.
I wish we weren’t just a chapter.
I wish we were the epilogue.

I knew it was time to say goodbye.
But I still smell the space on my pillow where your curly hair rested against it as you looked at me that way you do.
I still feel the way it felt when you pulled me close as I cried, how you kissed the top of my head tenderly.
I still hear the reverberations of our laughter, the things we said in unison, the way we finished each other’s sentences and shared our deepest fears.

We said goodbye to this version of us.
We knew it was time.
We knew it was what we needed to do.
And one day soon, I hope my heart knows it too.

You are not here
You are there
You are somewhere
You are not near

You are far
Here is not where you are

I am here
I am not there

You are everywhere
I am nowhere

I used to be there
Not the same as where
You are now
But where you used to be
There was you
And there was me
And there was we

We are not there
We are not here
We are not we

But you will always be
A part of me

I still can feel it when I close my eyes.

When I sleep, I am
trapped in a translucent space
where memories meet nightmares,
and it always lingers when
I wake.

The shame burns my insides
worse than any anger could
because even the nightmare
version ofyou
still gaslights me.

I have spent years building a persona
that projects strength so that
I can convince everyone
I would never have let that happen to me.

I am still trying to convince myself
because it's too painful.

Abuse is a ***** word and the others
that follow feel
       even
                dirtier than what
                                         you did to me.

I feel complicit.
I'm a co-conspirator in my own worst
living memory nightmares.

I was weak.
I said yes when I wanted to say no.
I gave in
      again and
                again and
                            again.

If my nightmares were a scene from a movie,
I would, on split screen, have
grabbed my own hand
and tugged myself into my own
horror, "it'll be okay, Meghan."
My subconscious is unrelenting,
unforgiving,
incomprehensible, undeniable
            you are a
    [stupiduglyworthlessspineless]
                        vict­imscratch that
                 survivorscratch that
       human ^tortured
         by            yourselfscratch that
                               him.
Ididthistomyselfscratch that
                                                      He did this to me.

I'm just going to start writing because
it's been so ****  long.
It's January and 70 degrees,
which is strangely beautiful,
something to which I can relate.

I wonder whether you can consider yourself
writer's blocked
if you haven't even tried to tumble the blocks over.

I'm not really sure why I stopped writing
or when exactly.
Maybe it's because I fell in love and found happiness.
Or maybe it's because I didn't want to
write out admissions that a perfect relationship doesn't exist.
Or, better yet, that even at my happiest,
my most in love,
there's still so much untouched darkness within me,
darkness that writing pretty words can't even make pretty
in the melancholic sort of way.

Maybe I haven't wanted to write because it's painful.
I can fake the lightness when I bury
myself
in  the world around me.
Saving problems for everyone else keeps me
from having to admit my own.

Maybe I've been blocking myself
from myself,
like if I go too deep,
peel enough back,
I may not like what I see.
Maybe I'll realize
I've been the one to blame all along.

If I write,
if words spill onto crisp white pages,
if ink bleeds from the tips of weathered hotel room pens,
if I release thoughts and feelings frozen
beneath strategically built, icy castles,
if I let go,
I may burst open too wide
and feel too much
and relive it all.

Even my newer, shinier,
stronger self
might not withstand
the force of that.

Perhaps I'll open the gate
and pray the reinforcements hold.

It was the second to last time
that I had you,
curled beside me,
chest rising & falling,
slowly & rhythmically
to the beat of
an *****
I wished more than anything to be mine;
but it was not so.

Taste of liquor still
heavy, weighing between
my slightly pouting lips,
I think a part of me knew,
even then,
that this may be the last time.

Convincing myself,
little did I know this effort
had persisted
nearly a year,
green I was
to hope for more.

Yet hope I did.

Your body felt so soft &
melodious
as it gently greeted my own,
lost in its
hidden intentions,
the music that echoed
against
the cement walls
sounded too loud
& drowned out
notes of rhyme & reason.

Today lay I that song to rest
yet not without again
questioning
the senses felt
come the first exposure
to new lyrics, melodies,
and sounds.

The bitter taste,
his sweet recipe
left upon my tongue,
I will never forget,
nor the smell of the
vanilla candles
and soft feelings
of perceived,
believed silkiness,
I now feel the cold, hard
linoleum
as it presses against my cheek.

Sometime they will
pass, leave me;
until then
the second to last time
is too loud
for this time.

When the air is crisp,
the smell of late autumn and early winter heavy in the air,
crackling leaves and tree pollens thick,
the light begins to slip away earlier each evening.

I peer into the meringue-streaked sky
through the rectangle frame of
my windshield,
and just like that,
my senses take me back
as if I had never left.

Stumbling home on sidewalks
stained by sick from too much fun,
or not enough,
the fun I had was nearly always the mask I wore
to conceal pain.

I remember the way the air smelled as I cried;
I remember the sound of pumps on asphalt as you screamed at me;
I remember the sensation of wood on knuckles as I struck the front deck in anger fully broken open,
like a mallet had cracked me from within my chest.

When I hear the first few notes of song after song,
together their own playlist of
memories wanted to be forgotten,
I'm the audience to a fade-in flashback.
Sometimes it happens so suddenly that I feel nauseous,
as if my body was physically ejected
from present to past,
from the totally inconspicuous to full-fledged trauma.

Even now, trauma is a ***** word
for the clash of happy smells and sounds
against their violently depressed
and repressed sentiments.
I struggle to understand how
my rapid fire of shells and casings,
my broken limbs and oozing wounds,
my PTSD ignites
within a glance at an orange horizon,
an inhale of firewood,
an echo of windy gusts shaking folded leaves from trees.

Autumn is a battlefield,
but so is winter, spring, and summer.
Every where I go,
every season that sneaks in
and fades away,
every night's sleep,
every new anxious thought;
you slither in the moments,
in between the trees,
circling round and round
waiting for the right sound or smell,
anticipating the sights unseen,
hiding within my senses,
eagerly springing to life
when I least expect it.

I exhale sharply
at 70 mph,
and I wonder when, if ever,
I will be
free.