I feel your lips
Pressing against mine
You running fingertips
Along the contours of my spine

I see the shape
Of your calloused palm
Sprinkled freckles across your nape
The shiver behind your calm

Your scent lingers
In the tangles of my hair
You ensnaring your fingers
Robbing me of air

I hear the rumble
In your haunted chest
Of the nightmares in your slumber
That keep you from rest

But I can’t understand you
& the depth of your sadness
I wonder if I’ll ever know
The taste of your madness

I gave you my heart
and you gave me your own
after school sometime in early spring.

I found my best paintbrush
and in a few careful strokes,
I put my name on your heart
in my best calligraphy.
You pulled out an object
I was all too familiar with
and placed the blade against my heart.
Then you pressed down,
and I don't think you realized
but when you wrote your name
it sunk in deeper than I think you meant to,
and you ended up carving your name
into my heart.

Then you handed it back to me,
and asked for your own,
so I had to return it,
paint strokes and all.
Soon enough you had managed
to wipe off all the calligraphy
and your heart was good as new.

I wish you had made it so easy for me.

I've given up by now
on trying to fill the space
where your name has been engraved.
I've accepted, I guess,
that you'll stay there forever.

But I have yet to
get used to the inscription,
and I want you to know
that next time,
you should really use a paintbrush.

Carving with a knife hurt a lot more.

We may never know
who people write about
and how they can keep writing
and
writing
and
writing

I know I write for someone
I also know the chances are
deathly low

But I still try
But I still try to reach the unreachable

And I can trust that you
the person reading my poetry
can understand and relate to
yourself and others
about changes

I don't care
if I ever write
another poem
about love
                    ...or angst.

                                For the twenty seventh time today
                                            I read of a love
                                         "unlike any other".

You know the one -
                  butterflies
                  goosebumps
    ­              can't breathe
                  best friend
                  life partner kind of love.

YES, YOU KNOW THE ONE!
Most of us do.
I've had seven myself.

                                But that's the power of love.
                               (Not the Huey Lewis meets
                                Celine Dion kind of love.)
                                    The reality twisting
                                   emotionally blinding
                                        omen erasing
                                         kind of love.

Where sixty percent of lovers
who were one hundred percent sure
they were different than everyone else
found some of the others
at the "Whoops I did it again" Prom
and started over
at the new, less improved dance
trying to forget the previous ones.

                         Some of them will have the courage
                                    (or loss of memory)
                          to say how unique it is........again.

It makes one man weep, and another man sing.
And inevitably,
                 the third man will write about it.
                 Much to our unoriginal,
                 bad after-taste,
                 and at the very best "Isn't that sweet",
                chagrin.

Sentimental geysers
of sincerest and irrepressible corn,
temper your naivety
and ponder your muse of passion
before you unveil puppy love
in the face of those who have bravely ridden the Rottweiler of amore'...
                                                    and­ even been bitten by it
                                                              ­          once or twice.

Consider your thoughts on love.

Then reconsider your angst about its failings
.

               How dare you have dread
                    if you haven't yet removed twenty five calendars
                         from the wall!?

It is a whiny *** of irony that reeks of 13 year old experience, hairless underarm machismo,
blatant high school drama posing as relevance, and that left over bottle of your dad's
cologne or favorite aunt's vanilla container you knew wouldn't be missed,
while you stained the olfactory neighborhood three blocks at a time.

                                                     The genuinity of youthful angst
                                 holds the credibility of a hairpiece
                                                       ­             on a televangelist.

         This anxious cloak of writhing distress
must be earned as a veteran,
                                    where only the scars of war
get a Purple Heart.
                You can't just say you have it.

Angst is rewarded to
the single mom who lost her job
     and has four children to feed,
and to the man who has to figure out
     how to hide the diaper
     he never thought he'd have to wear,
and to the parent who holds a dying child,
and the senior citizen who can't remember
     where they live,
and the solitary soul who truly has no one.......
     no one to call
     in the darkest moments of their life.

The "poor me", single pimple, concert's sold out, boyfriend #17 *****, inconvenient day
is wanting in qualifications, and we are irritated to hear your blathering interpretation of it.
We will hear you when your words come with bandages.

I don't care
if I ever write
another poem
about love...
                     because it has been done
                  and no one has ever gotten it right...
or angst
               ...because I am unworthy of the reward.

I think I will just write about
what other people shouldn't write about.
There is no end in this.