Sticky sweet memories
cling to the side
of my mason jar mind

Like blackberry jam.

Berries plucked
and kisses stolen
beneath a sultry summer sky.

Nothing but sweat and
white teeth and
purple stained finger tips.

But now it's cold--
too cold
for blackberries.

I spread what's left
of the jam
on some dry toast

And savor the taste.

I’ve reached a roadblock
in this punch-drunk--

The exhilarated semblance
of warm-color happiness
is peeled back
like the layers of an onion
to reveal raw, pungent inexperience
sincere in frankness,
yet clumsy in approach

The blurred lines of
tender affection
and pious adulation--

The muddy waters of
passionate attachment
and fiery dominion--

A foolish game
for a foolish girl.

I am flesh
weak and bruised.
I am blood
dark and damning.
I am bone
rigid and cold.
I am flesh
soft and smooth.
I am blood
warm and teeming.
I am bone
strong and resilient.
I am flesh
and blood
and bone.
It is all I can be.
And it has to be enough.

Bated breath;
dry lips parted
attached
to tense limbs
and
cold feet stamped
on wet pavement.

waiting on words
to flow
from a swollen tongue
thick
with empty promises.

red eyes watch
with a façade of
jaded apathy
given away only
by dry lips,
tense limbs,
and cold feet.

I grow up
but you don't
Etched in a memory
Laughing
Bereft of ego
and adult responsibilities

I grow old
but you don't
Stuck in the amber
of a yesteryear
Forever fourteen
White teeth and sweaty palms

I grow hard
but you don't
Frozen by a lens
Smiling
Nothing but sunshine
Behind bright, brown eyes

I remember vividly,
Thanksgiving, 1999.
I asked my mother
for a sip of her wine
(Pinot Grigio).

She hesitated, then laughed,
and let me press my small lips
against the rim
of the long stem glass.

The cool liquid
stung the back
of my throat
as it went down,
and I furrowed my brows
in disgust.

"Why would anyone drink this?"
Adult laughter erupted
around the table.

I didn't smile.
I wondered what they knew
That I did not.

Flash forward.
Present day wino
with a strong preference
for red
but a known policy
of indifference.

I enjoy it now.

But every once in a while,
I take a sip
that stings the back
of my throat.
And as I furrow my brows
in disgust,
I remember
That I still don't know
anything.

We've been expecting rain
for three days.

The weathermen get it wrong sometimes too,
I suppose.

Besides, rain always seems to come
when you least expect it.

If loving you is stepping off a cliff
I would gladly take that step
Over and over again.

Falling
           down
                     down.

Tangled limbs and broken bones.

Smiling all the while.

Eyes
closed.

Nostrils
flared.

Lips
just
barely
parted.

I used to think that the penalty
for devastating loss
was a metaphorical
            hole
                   in your
heart.

And though that
            hole
                  made you
broken,
something would come along
to fill that
            hole.

All things broken
could be made new again.

I know now,
that is not true.
A
            hole
                   in your
heart,
cannot be filled.

When you lose a piece
of yourself,
that piece is gone.
Forever.

And no amount of love,
or support,
can restore you
to shiny, new condition.

But
that is not to say
that the broken
cannot be healed.

For though a heart
can never be made
             whole
again,

It can be made larger.

You can never replace
the missing pieces,
But you can always
collect more.

And though more surface area
leaves more opportunity for
              holes,
It also changes the size
of the existing ones
relative to what's left.

You will never not miss
what you have
lost.

You will never not feel
burdened by your
brokenness.

But it will get easier.

The sunshine filters in
dancing starlight across your cheeks
crisp white teeth gleam
behind sun-kissed lips
And I smile
because you
are all
            mine.

The moon is bright and full
Like my heart
My heart is full and bursting
Like a berry
Red and ripe
And ready
To be devoured
By
   your
           love

This morning I cried
Because the blanket you gave me
No longer smells like you.

That scent you had asked me to describe
But I couldn't.
I said something generic.
"It smells good. You smell good."

I guess it's weird to tell a person they smell like home.

You tell me not to worry.
You promise you'll be back.
Back to sleep under that blanket with me.

I believe you with my whole heart.
Just as I've done everything with you—
WITH MY WHOLE HEART

My head, however,
Isn't so sure.

From a flowering plant
From a naive heart
Harvested and opened
Roasted and transformed
Broken and darkened
By life
By process
Ground into powder

                                     Pulverized

Boiled and burned
Strained

                                     Drained

Not even a fraction
Of what it once was
But the result
is
Delicious
Sustaining

                                 ­    Beautiful

Experienced differently
Enjoyed
Interpreted
Or
Suffered through
Differently

Drink up.

When I say that I love you,
I mean that right now,
in this moment,
I am in love with you.
I mean that I care about you.
I mean, that right now,
in this moment,
I would like to be with you for the long run.
I mean that right now,
in this moment,
I can see myself being with you forever.

When I say that I love you,
I do NOT mean that I can promise that I WILL love you forever.
It only means that right now,
in this moment,
I would like to try.
I do NOT mean that I think loving you will be easy.
It only means that right now,
in this moment,
I think it will be worth it.
I do NOT mean that I expect you to always agree with me.
I do NOT mean that I expect you to love me in exactly the same way.
I ONLY mean that I hope that you can try
to love me too.

Sticky summer days
Bored and lonely

My mother would tell me
To find shapes in the clouds.

"Look. That's a dog."
"Over there, that's a teapot."

"I see it," I'd say.
But I never did.

All I saw were clouds.

The freckles on your body
Like stars in the sky
I want to connect the dots

Kissing constellations
across your back

The entire universe
behind your eyes

The thunder clouds are rolling in
And all I want is your skin
On my skin
The taste of your sheets
In my mouth
As I bite down
Hard
They smell like you
Like us
Our lust
And the rain on the roof
The whisper on your lips
A kiss
A moan
An unsuppressed groan
When you touch me
With fire
Fingers crooked and long
Our bodies together
Dance to a song
The music we make
My whole body aches
For you
For us
Our lust
In these sheets
I taste
A future
Where this
Rainy day bliss
Of your skin
On my skin
Long after the sunshine
Has filtered back in

Someone once told you,
“Boys don’t cry.”
And for a while,
you believed them.

But like a flower,
kissed by the sun
and nurtured by the rain,
you opened yourself to the world.

And the world can be harsh.
Cloudy days can be cruel.
But if you wait for the sun,
I promise it will come back.

Your empathy may destroy you,
but that’s the price you must pay
to feel happiness and love
as deeply as you do.

And they will tell you,
“You are weak.”
But darling,
you are not weak.

And they will tell you
“You are less than.”
But darling,
you are more.

Boy who cries, you are beautiful.
But they will tell you
you are not.

Don’t listen.

You look as I remember
Handsome and tall
But when I see you now
I feel nothing at all.

You still smell like soap
And faintly of pine
But when I smell you now
I don't wish you were mine.

Your laugh sounds the same
Boyish and gay
But when I hear it now
I don't want you to stay.

Your eyes they still sparkle
Blue like the sea
But when you leave tonight
It won't be with me.

Your voice still sounds sweet
When you call my name
But when you say it now
It just isn't the same.

What we once were
I can't seem to recall
Because when I see you now
I feel nothing at all.

You traced the horizon with your fingertips
as if the sunset was something you painted
with Kool-Aid and cornstarch.

The ocean spit salty on the backs of our necks
As the sun faded behind the skyline of the city.
You kissed me hard then lit a cigarette. Laughing,
"Nobody watches the sunset on the East Coast."

I lay my head on your shoulder
as you dug trenches in the sand with your feet.
We sat in silence for a while, and that was okay.
You always said if the words aren't there, don't force it.

If the love isn't there don't force it.

If the love isn't there don't force it.

If the love isn't there don't force it.

I keep that sunset you painted with me all the time
and I look at it when I can't remember
what the sun feels like.

Wrinkled with time and more dull than I remember
it still stains my fingertips red and leaves a sugary sweet taste
on my tongue.

The most painful dreams
are the ones where I'm kissing you
because when I wake up, I know

I can't.

When it was late, and quiet,
And we'd lie in bed in silence
Staring up at the ceiling or
at the shadows on the wall,
Just when I'd think we'd
run out of things to say,
Just when I'd let myself start to drift
toward the peacefulness of unconsciousness,
You'd sigh deeply and plunge head-first
into an existential rant
worthy more of Kafka or Camus
than a half-asleep me.
Me, worried about the absurdity of gas prices,
not the absurdity of life.
And I'd roll my eyes when you'd ask me questions
I'd never even entertained, let alone have the answers to.
And you'd wonder if you'd ever find a meaning,
or a purpose.
And I'd tell you not to worry; to live more in the moment
If there is meaning, you'll find it
If not, you'll define it.
And you'd kiss me gently on the forehead,
And I'd roll over and fall asleep,
But I suspect you'd lay awake for hours after,
Never truly satisfied with the answers I, or anyone else
could ever seem to give you.

And I wonder now sometimes,
If you lie in bed next to someone new,
And ask her the same questions you used to ask me.
Maybe she has better answers.
Maybe she makes you forget about your questions.
Maybe you still lie awake at night,
wondering if you'll ever find what it is you're looking for.

And I still don't have the answers,
And I still don't understand all the questions,
But sometimes I lie awake at night,
Staring up at the ceiling or
at the shadows on the wall,
And I wonder if I'll ever find a meaning
or a purpose.
And I find I'm never truly satisfied with the answers
anyone can ever seem to give me.

It's Saturday
And I feel lonely
I drink some coffee
And I feel lonely
I do the laundry
And I feel lonely
I ride my bike
And I feel lonely
I buy some groceries
And I feel lonely
I watch TV
And I feel lonely
I smoke a pack
And I feel lonely
I down a bottle
And I feel lonely
I think of you
And I feel lonely
I call you up
And I feel lonely
The doorbell rings
And I feel lonely

I see you
You come in
I have you
You leave

And I feel nothing

Hey Billy Boy,
Listen:
Meet me on Tralfamadore.
You know when, Billy Boy,
We've been there before.

I'll be your Montana,
And we'll talk and we'll ****.
Until the time comes
We become time unstuck.

It's hard to adjust
To four-dimensional sight.
Strange to know the world will end,
With a fateful test flight.

Free will is a myth;
So resign yourself to fate.
Billy Boy, so it goes.
Just sit back, and wait.

It doesn't get cold here in Florida.
The leaves never seem to change.
The A/C stays on, the asphalt stays warm,
A day below 60 is strange.

It doesn't get cold here in Florida,
At least not down south, on the coast.
The seasons go by, and it rains for a while,
And barely a breeze at the most.

It doesn't get cold here in Florida.
Sandals and short sleeves abound.
Scant is a sweater, and for worse or for better,
Pools are open year round.

It doesn't get cold here in Florida,
At least not by way of degrees, but
Your aloof demeanor gives need for a heater,
Without one, I think I might freeze.

It doesn't get cold here in Florida, but
You could have fooled me with your chill. If
Your eyes are your weapon, then baby I reckon,
When you look, you aim to ****.

It doesn't get cold here in Florida,
That's what I used to say.
Until I stepped out in a moment of doubt,
And you've never stopped making me pay.

Down feathered and soft,
Pressed up against me at night;
They can't replace you.

This is the poem where she stays.
This is the poem where her hand grazes
the doorknob, turns 45 degrees
then stops.
She stands still staring at a spot
just above the doorframe.
(What is that—a water stain?)
She bites her lip and waits;
listens
to your apologies stuck
like a lump in your throat.
And you watch her hand twitch
and you pray
that she doesn’t turn the doorknob
any further.

This is the poem where she turns around.
This is the poem where she gives
you an icy stare
but she stays; sits
in her favorite chair.
She crosses her legs and she waits;
listens
to your frantic explanations
about why you did what you did and
how you’ll never do it again.
And she wonders
if you really mean it.

This is the poem where you kiss her.
This is the poem where she doesn’t resist,
but doesn’t quite reciprocate.
She takes her bag back
to the bedroom to unpack
and you stand there and wait;
listening
to see if she starts putting her stuff away
where it belongs, or if instead
she puts the packed bag by the bed
incase she changes her mind.

This is the poem where you come home late
from work the next day.
This is the poem where she pushes you away.
She screams and makes threats
about the bag by the bed.
She’ll leave you—she swears it.
Just give her a reason.
You calm her down with words
like “I love you,” and “Trust me.”
****** forth your phone
“Call the office, if you must, babe.”
She walks towards the bedroom
and you stand there and wait;
listening
to see if you can hear the exact moment
when she stops loving you.

This is the poem where she leaves, anyway.
This is the poem where she doesn’t look back
as you beg and you plead
and grovel on your knees.
You paint a picture with your words
of your life before this.
How you wish it never happened!
“What if it never happened?”
She stops and she drops
her bag on the floor
She turns and she stares
at you in the door.
“You can’t change the past.
You can’t wish it away.
It’s just not that kind of poem, babe.
This is not the poem where I stay.”

You poured into me
like cream into coffee.
Quickly.
Beautifully.
And once it began,
impossible to stop.
You dove into my core,
Swirling.
Binding.
Redefining.

You didn’t try to destroy
the dark parts of me.
You embraced them,
kissed them
gently.
Lightening the dark,
by sharing the burden.
You told me my strength
was beautiful.
And that being strong
doesn’t have to mean
being alone.

We were unassuming yet
extraordinary.
And I grew comfortable in the close quarters
of our singular pronoun.

Life without you now is
like giving up coffee;
It’s so hard to wake up.
Until one day,
it’s not.

I’ve had writer’s block for months.

Then a five-word cliché unleashed a torrent of
thoughtsfeelingswordsphrases
Emotions
Pent-up for so long.

And the best part is,
You're wrong, babe.
It’s not you, it’s me.

And it always has been.

I’m thankful for your cold shoulder
Turned away from me.
Unflinching.

I’m thankful for your taste in movies
Satirical horror.
Running time: 1 hour 35 minutes.

I’m thankful you didn’t kiss me
Lips pressed together tight.
Unwavering.

I’m thankful for the goodbye hug
Lopsided and callous.
Approximately 3 seconds.

And mostly, I’m thankful
You decided you were through with me at 10:56.
And not 10:57.

Because I made every green light
On the way home from your apartment.

Spolied circle stuck rotating
pulsating
to the beat of a drummer
that plays music
even he won’t listen to.
Parachuting little yellow spheres
Tuned in to ****** pop songs
Rubbing out unpleasant thoughts
with cheap wine.
Waking up to sweat-soaked sheets
and a bitter taste on your tongue.

He veers to the left when he walks
in and out of lives
up and down city streets.
His gait clumsy
and haphazard
bumping passersby
and knocking glasses off tables.
Slack jawed stares and
excited whispers;
unphased
unwavering
steady in his unsteadiness.
He meanders down alleyways;
breaking hearts
and preconceived notions about
what a vagabond should
or shouldn’t be.

You run your fingers across maps
Like you are caressing the cheek
of your dying lover
for the last time

I returned to the place
where I use to escape
from the pedestrian affairs
of life in suburbia.

Many nights spent
collapsed on the pavement
swapping humdrum stories
of teenage angst.

It was the end of a road
just north of town
with nothing but swampland
in two directions.

Far enough away
from the sprawl of the city
to understand quiet
without getting lost.

An abundance of stars
made us feel insignificant
and the freedom of isolation
gave us confidence and strength.

It was balanced and beautiful
like we were, back then,
just the right amount
of elation and confusion.

So then it was silly, I guess
for me to expect
that a place like that
would still be the same.

It's a strip mall now,
sleek and amalgamated
and the unkempt sawgrass
replaced with pigmented mulch.

Your windblown hair and
your windbound heart
inhabit a single memory.
Sad eyes in the rearview mirror
Pursed lips and perverted thoughts
Like how your hand resting on her thigh
should be resting on mine
instead.

They say when you lose a limb,
sometimes you can still feel it
even after it's gone
Maybe that's why I still feel your arm
wrapped around my waist

The armrest between us
feels dangerous.
Here I sit
separate
in my chair
safe
on my own.

The tension is thick
like the rim of your glasses
thick
like the lump in my throat.

I focus on not touching you
so much so, that I forget
about the no-man's land that is
the armrest.

Our fingers touch briefly.
It's an accident.

It's electric.

And our hands do a dance,
delicate and graceful.
A ballet of avoidance.

Ceasing movement,
content in our solitude,
A sigh of relief.
Of disappointment.

Then, a sudden attack.

You lace your fingers between my own
and gently squeeze my hand.

You don't look at me.
And I am grateful.

I want to dissolve
like the sugar
in my coffee.

Let me simplify
what you can't justify
by saying
it's futile
and unimportant.
You're lackluster
and distorted.
This time is vacuous
And holds no meaning
So watch it play out
And quit your dreaming.

This time last year
I was so happy.
Today I can't stop staring at
my basket of laundry,
wishing it would
fold itself.

You told me I was your
terra firma
because you could always
count on me to be there
when even you
didn't want to be there

I relished the fact that you
would consider me your
anything
let alone something
that sounded so strong and
beautiful

Your extraplanetary misadventures
in love and lust and
all things fleeting
left your wobbly legs aching for
solid ground

But you should know
I'm here to hold you up
not for you to
walk all over

I used to do things, you know,
with my time.
I used to read;
books, sometimes magazines.

I used to garden.
(Can you imagine?)
I planted tomatoes
and an aloe plant, some flowers.

I used to write, on occasion
mostly short stories
and some essays
here and there.

I liked to cook
and not just scrambled eggs,
(though you always liked my scrambled eggs)
but whole meals
and bake too.

I used to do things, you know
before you.

I can't seem to write
anything these days.
There's just no poetry
in my misery.

I can't seem to right
anything these days.
There's just no cogency
in my apologies.

Your shirt was missing a button
and I couldn't help but notice
but you told me I was pretentious
so I pretended not to see it
but all day long it bothered
me and I couldn't help but stare
at the way the fabric bunched
and nobody seemed to care

I trace my fingertips across the car door
making designs in the dirt.
You yell at me,
but I can't hear you.

All I can hear is the
pounding of my heart.
The blood pumping through my body
echoes in my ears,
and your voice sounds distant.
What I imagine it sounds like after a bomb goes off to those
who were standing too close.

I stare at the the ground, the setting sun,
the neat circles of dirt on the tips of my fingers,
anywhere but at you.
Even though your looks are
bouncing off me like rubber bands,
even though your words sound
like they're going through a filter,
I can tell you are begging me to look at you.

Ears ringing, eyes stinging,
I slowly meet your gaze.
Now, I'm no lip reader,
but I could see the venom dripping
off your lips as you spoke.
There's no mistaking that foul, fricative-fronted phrase.

But I deserve it, I know.

You look as if you are about to say something else,
but you stop yourself with just a nanosecond to spare.
The words left your brain but
never made it to your tongue.

Instead, the thought manifested itself in silent tears
that dripped down your face.
Tracing my mistakes
across the the cheeks I used to caress,
down the neck I used to kiss,
toward the heart I didn't mean to break.

There's a light on my front porch
that comes on when I open the door at night.
I step outside to light a cigarette and
stand there under the bulb
watching the bushes move
with the wind and the scurrying of
little lizards.

But if I stand really still,
the light goes off and
for a few moments, I can disappear.
I can still hear the crickets and
a few cars in the distance, but
it's disembodied sound.

It's quiet. Dark. Far removed from
the reality illuminated by the sun
during the day and the sensor light
on the front porch at night.

I focus all my energy on
keeping my movements small, controlled.
The slight rise and fall of my chest as
I breathe. The modest shuffle of my
feet as I shift my weight from one
side to the other.

My thoughts are completely occupied
with making sure I stay invisible.
Reality exists only in the glow
of that wretched porch light.

But eventually, I feel the heat between my
fingers, jolting me back to an existence
where I have worries greater than
making sure I stay absolutely still.

When I watch movies alone,
sometimes
even something just
mildly sad
makes me cry.

Something that would
make others give
an empathetic nod
or let out an
exasperated sigh
makes me
weep.

I chalk it up to
good writing, good
acting.
Character attachment is
so important.

But really, it
just feels good
to have a reason to
sob like that.

Salty tears and
bitter groans,
go down just a little bit
sweeter
when a sad scene in a movie
justifies their
unsavory appearance.

His name was meant
for someone three times his age.
Someone who reaches into
the pocket of his sweater
for little hard candies,
amidst games of shuffleboard
and canasta.

I would have never pegged him
for a Walter or a Leonard.
(Wait, was it Larry?)

But then again,
the way he
sweet talked me into
his bed that night,
I would've never expected to
wake up alone
the next morning.

A post-it note balancing delicately
on the indentations of his pillow;
*Had to go to work. Nice meeting you, doll.

The way her lipstick stains
the rim of her wine glass,
and the way she uses
the back of her hand
to wipe away the purple
drops from her
perfect lips
is so
*******
gorgeous.
And suddenly I understand
why he choose her
over me.