The sun shines brighter
When you’re around
Its flare, skin’s sustenance
Coaxing your June freckles
To breach the surface
So that each one is met
With the warmth of love’s kiss
Unmatched by labyrinth ribbons
Of luminous passion
Wound sound around our souls
Life’s star, a neat bow
Wrapping us in an embrace
Of everlasting glow

Of all the ways
I’ve watched the world
Fail to take flight

The worst is my own

i didn’t want to write this.

not when you’re no longer laying next to me.
the warmth from your skin no longer seeping into mine.

i didn’t want to write this.
not without your hand intertwined with mine.
fingers wrapped so delicately around each other.

i didn’t want to write this.
not because it doesn’t hurt anymore.
i’m reminded of you every single day.

i really didn’t want to write this.
but i did.

because it still hurts that i wasn’t good enough for you.
it kills me that it seemed easy for you to leave so suddenly.
it pains me that you probably never looked back once.

but that pain is still there.
i promise you that.

so i guess i wrote this to remind you.
(or remind myself of you)
i wrote this to remind you that even 3 months, numerous attempts to say your name without the bitter aftertaste, and several poems later, it’s still hard to pretend that i was never close with you.

laying next to you.
my body warmth seeping into yours.  
fingers wrapped delicately.

you feel that?
it’s the pain,
still there.

we were poor
but not deluded

and when
van morrisson's
"brown eyed girl"
comes on the radio on
that worn
old
brown rug
my brother and I
started tapping our feet
shaking our heads
to the music and
our sisters are smiling
at us and
our mother is laughing
at us

and all we needed was
laughter and love
a prayer and a song

turn up the radio

if a person is famous
they name a bridge after you or
a street

at least a rest stop
on the turnpike

greatness

however

is a different matter ...


melodious percussion

the guitar player
in dark sunglasses
wearing a fedora hat
the brim pulled down

the vocalist
with a voice
like rain


you find greatness
in the strangest of places

a pint of bourbon
a poem

or

at
a strip mall on rt. 9

He tastes like winter and smells like home

Tuesday wanders
misunderstood
its only tangible virtue:
It isn’t Monday