Last night I dreamt of you again.
A lingering gaze and the hand
That slides,
Too far,
Down a back.
I dreamt of a grin.
Mischievous.
Shared only between us two.
Of blushing cheeks that long
To feel the graze of fingertips
And lips that quiver with loneliness.

As I lay my head on your chest each night
I wonder if Adam’s heart beat the same way,
When Eve pressed her ****** body against his
Both of them dreaming - secretly- of heaven.
I wonder if Isolde kissed Tristan like I kiss you;
Drinking from him, as if their passion
Would douse hell’s fires instead of fuel them.
I wonder if Paris looked at Helen the way you look at me;
As if the world started and stopped in her eyes
And everyone’s fate hung from the curve of her lips.
I wonder if Samson was as trusting as you readily are
When Delilah tied him to the kitchen chair
And cut his strength away from him.
And as we drift off to sleep,
Hearts beating in (almost) perfect time,
I wonder if we are as doomed
As history’s great lovers-
If tragedy and true love are as intertwined
As we are between my sheets.
And while I know my dreams will be full
Of Prince Charmings that look like you,
I can never remember if the endings,
Always slipping away like sand through my fingers,
Are written by Disney, or the Brothers Grimm.

I never believed in love at first sight;
But I do believe in love at first touch,
Of your hand on my knee.
I believe in love at first breakfast,
Even if it’s just bacon and coffee.
I believe in love at fist dinner, too,
But breakfast has always been more important, anyway.
I even believe in love at first joke,
Even if you don’t think mine are as funny as I do.
I never believed in love at first sight
Because, my dear, how could I have known,
With just a simple glimpse,
The way your touch would stir my heart.
The way your voice would woo my mind
And your laugh send shivers down my spine.
The way your smile
Would lighten my creamless coffee.

It’s raining,
And I wish you were here.
Because, and I know it’s cliché,
But I’m falling a lot harder
Than this rain, and dear,
It’s torrential here.
But these sheets of rain
Remind me of the sheets we share,
And I’d just as quickly
Wrap myself up in them
If I thought you were in there, too.
It’s 101° there.
But here it’s raining.
And I miss you.

From one
Who says, “Don’t cry.
You don’t want them to know”

And two
Who tells you
It’s your fault anyway.

To three
Who pretends that
You were old enough to consent.

And four
Who asks, “Was it
Really ****? I think you came.”

To five
Who doesn’t like that you said no,
So he ties you down
And does it anyway.

And six
Who grabs you by the throat
And tells you, “Stop fighting,
I’ll make you feel good”.

To those who think it’s good - yes -
Some think they’re doing you a favor

And they’ll tell you that
You want it
And sometimes you almost,
Almost , believe it.

Thank goodness there are numbers
Higher than one, two, three,
And, yes, even six.

Thank goodness they are not
All the same.

And thank goodness
Thank goodness
We can put ourselves back together
Without them.

The smell of tulips will forever be
Inextricable from that of cheap *****,
And I'll never quite be able to enjoy the taste
Of jelly thumbprint cookies without
Tonguing the teeth you knocked out
The first time we made them.
And I've always preferred open kitchens
So I don't have to think about how many times
You broke the door to ours.
And while I wish we spoke more-
I still remember when mouths were fists,
And words broke bones.
And though I know its in the past,
I still see the glint in your eyes
When a bottle goes by.
Time has healed our wounds;
My adult teeth replaced the gaps,
And you always replaced the door the next day.
We laugh freely now, and the tulips still grow
In the garden on your balcony.
But I'd be lying if I told you
That I can't still see the scars,
Or that the fear doesn't still linger
In our silent moments.
That sleeping with a knife under my pillow
Didn't start when you were still tucking me in.

Grief is the thing with feathers.
The thing in the rafters, dancing,
Just beyond my fingertips.
Grief is the thing in my bed.
The thing with strong arms
That refuse to hold me.
Grief is the thing with fur.
The thing winding itself about my legs,
Tripping me as I walk.
Grief is the thing in yellow.
The thing that's shining, mockingly,
Without keeping me warm.
Grief is the thing in the mirror.
The thing that looks like me,
But moves without me, still.