When I first met you your light changed me,
         this girl bursting with energy
                                                   communing with nature
                                                                                    and bleeding poetry.
I felt alive when talking to you,
                 comparing your serene coolness to my cheap imitation
                                                                                 must have looked foolish,
but it was innocent and lovely.

Right about then you threw up in my room.

Everything I learned about you just sparked more desires.
      I caught myself writing poetry to your praise
                                                  and leaping at you with blinders on to anything that I didn’t care for.
Your smile evolved from what I first felt was charming
                                                                                   into something deadly and seductive.
You gave me chills and left me
      gasping
            for
              air.

We ****** but you hated when I called it that,
      you used cutesy words and danced around all of my advances.

We ran out of small talk questions as time rolled on,
       settling into philosophy
               and debates about how people are alike and different.
We took turns falling into the pessimist role and donning the cloak of the eternal optimist,
         I was always better at the former.
I caught a glimpse of the shadow cast hiding behind your shining light.
            Being that it was a part of you it naturally interested me,
                    and I pressed you for more and more.

You drank yourself unconscious at a party and I held you in my arms.
        I nursed you back to health and we “fricked” for the entire night.
I didn’t even care that you smelled like puke.

We filled in the blanks trading blows of what we considered our darkest secrets.
          Yours always won and they made me see you in a new light,
                   almost as this delicate beauty majestically growing in a dark void.
I understood you better, and I almost wished I didn’t.

“Sure I can bring some over,
                 I’m just glad to see you.
     How have you been?  
          No I don’t have anymore.
                 Yeah I’ll leave.”

I started to hear the same stories;
                     I still laughed at your energy and enthusiasm in telling them.
    I saw you less and less and when I did you seemed different,
              like you were just donning some mask, playing a part just for me
. That’s when I first noticed the split in you.
       The tired lines stretching from your cheeks
                                                              holding up that delicate smile,
               I was determined to erase them.

You still banged me from time to time.
     So like a pilgrim to a holy land I kept showing up
            bringing alcoholic offerings as a sign of good faith.
We never talked about poetry anymore,
       but I didn’t mind.
We hid in your basement and ******* about the world,
             until the beer ran out, or you passed out and I left.

Your eyes hurt me then.
    What I once saw as a mirror like shine filled in,
              and now seemed glassy and shallow.
I started drawing when we hung out to have an excuse not to stare into them anymore.
        Life raged on and it seemed like the waves were slowly eating away the girl I knew.

I realized that I was your fix.
       When I called you on it you laughed and seemed surprised it took me this long to get it,
I didn’t stop coming,
    it actually felt good to get rid of the pretense,
           it was like a show, watching you drink away your soul.
Some friend I am. At least I wasn’t a drunk I told myself.

As your life spiraled downwards from your addiction it brought you to a lot of painful places.
        Places with bars and handcuffs,
                  places with straps,
                         places with tubes connecting your tiny frame to big machines.
I wasn’t there to see you in those places, I couldn’t.

I started yelling at you,
       trying to wake you up from the slumber you seemed content to stumble around in. 
 I lectured you and watched as you let it flow right past.
          I called you on your lies and refused to be your delivery service.
I hoped it wasn’t too late.

I want to see that girl who bleeds poetry again,*

And I’ll wear my best suit to your grave.

To the old man buying oranges,
          We have never spoken,
                    But I owe you my thanks.
You wandered into the store,
          Locking onto the produce section,
                    You demand the honor your age grants.
Carefully you inspect the fruit one by one,
          Examining every dimple, checking every rind,
                    Scouring for flaws in your beloved items.
Placing the chosen few in your basket,
          You set out for the lines,
                    And ****** yourself into my spot.

Because of your age, I do not object.
You transfer your citrus treasures to the belt,
          Locking them in place, between the dividers.
You glance back at me with a scornful expression,
          I look away feeling guilty, for what I didn't know.
You release from your wallet only what is required,
          And quickly bury it back out of sight.
You hand over your money sourly.
Latching onto your bag of chosen keepsakes,
          You march out the door glaring at the ground.

I pay for my items and head out as well.
As I exit the store I see it in an instant,
          Your tiny frail body tumbling through the air,
                    Landing onto the car that almost missed you,
                              But sadly it did not.
The crowd rushes toward you, lying there quietly.
          It all happened so fast.
I watch as your oranges flee from their bag,
          Rushing away from the tragedy that freed them,
                    Tumbling quickly away with your life.


To the old man buying oranges,
          We have never spoken,
                    But I owe you my thanks,
                              For taking my place in line.

You smile and my heart skips a beat.
I cannot believe that such a beautiful creature has noticed me.
I suddenly realized that your smile was from sympathy,
And awkward preparations with good intentions.
It sunk in quickly when you said this might not be a good idea.

Suddenly your smile wasn’t a present, but a parting gift.
You said you were hard to catch, but I figured I was on the right track.
I could almost say the lines for both of us in this painfully familiar play.
At least you were letting me down easy,
You pulled the it’s not you its me.

I mumbled back in the best way I could.
Haunted by that smile, and the conclusions I already made.
I played it cool and tried to keep to your wishes,
But you wouldn’t just let me go bury my head in shame.
You last dagger was the lets just be friends.

My narcissism kicked into full speed.
The wheels lept forward, making new bandages for my bruised ego.
I even hoped for a pity ****.
I think you were hurt that I even asked,
But you just laughed and said I crack you up.

Now I’m stuck being a pal to you.
Sometimes the consolation prize just burns more.
But at least I get to see your smile,
And plot for another bite at the apple.
I guess I just don’t learn my lesson.

                  Your toes look weird, look at them all long and fingery.
Sometimes I wonder how you can know exactly the perfect things to drive me crazy,
         I guess its just part of our interactions.
               If an outsider were to observe it they would think we were bitter enemies,
                   Sometimes I have to remind myself too.

                     *Look it’s the what what in the **** boy!
I silently cringe, but know it’s just your hello.
          I’m glad your home and I prepare my rebuttal.
                  Why are you always excited when talking about boys butts?
                         It was weak but better than nothing, now I bide my time for my turn to attack.

                      What time do you work at? you ask as you relax.
What’s the matter? Can’t you remember anything old man?
           I know that your receding memory is a sensitive nerve,
                 And I thrive on hopping up and down on it.
                      Sometimes I wonder why we do this to each other.

230 I finally answer feeling bad for the low blow,
          You smile, and I know my guilt was your intention all along.
                 It’s times like this I’m positive we were cut from the same cloth.
                    I love you, you know that? I throw out into the air,
*Of course bro, I love you too, what’s on TV?

I'm normally a reserved person,
But you tear that out of me with unbridled passion.
I think you like to watch me squirm.

I know so much about you,
But there is still so much more to learn.
I wouldn't have it any other way.

I need to pace myself,
But something about you urges me forward.
I'm tired of stagnancy.

I've heard of this feeling,
But I have always figured people were just exaggerating.
I can't wait to find out.

I hadn't written in years,
But I find myself breaking that tradition.
I guess I found my muse.

A new cast invokes memories of the old,
The way that a spring fragrance echoes a past bloom.
I am afraid that I’m getting ahead of myself,
But I’ve always been a glutton for abuse.

The dance is strikingly similar but more fluid,
The way that a musician’s fingers dance over favored tune.
I fear that the ease comes with practice,
And pray that it's from something more meaningful.

The audience whispers musings and concerns,
The way a child doubts the mother’s monster search.
I ignore them and try to put them out of my mind,
But cringe as I feel their ideas fester.

The dancers go on oblivious to the world,
The way animals follow instinct in their hunt.
I am reminded of one thing, I never wrote a love poem,
Not even for her.