The summer sun is warm
and fragrant on my skin
and I'm the happiest I've ever been
right before the first time
you leave me.

The second time,
the cold is sharp and ruthless
and tastes like emptiness
and I saw it coming
days, maybe weeks in advance.

Neither time is better than the other,
but then again,
neither one is worse,
like comparing death by fire
to death by falling from a height;
death is death
and the time to dwell on it
is the true meaning of hell.

There won't be a third time.

I say this every time
our song comes on the radio
or
I see your favorite flower
or
someone happens to wear
your fragrance of choice.

What are the odds, d'you think?
If I tattoo it on my wrist
THERE WON'T BE A THIRD TIME
and I write it on every flat surface I own
THERE
WILL
NOT
BE
A
THIRD
TIME
which is more likely:
you kiss me and I push you away
or
a piano falls on my head?

I'm hoping for a piano, honestly.

At least then I can imagine
the last time you leave me
is at my wake
and this time
this time
you cry.

I have to be strong for other people.*

This is all that I know.

I cannot, must not, break down
in front of another human.  
My pain takes a backseat to theirs.
Cast aside, on my own comand.

I still feel the pain, however.
And when I'm alone...
Sometimes, when alone,
I remember.
I break.
I hurt.

Then I walk out.
Ready to take on another person's burdens.


(d d.b)

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

He told her she was pottery; a vase with grooves and cracks.
The patterns of the history she hid behind her back.

Within his words he layered in- like thread upon a loom-
The sweetest undercurrent to illuminate that gloom.

In certain cultures, he decreed, when pottery is cracked
They aggrandize them with gleaming gold to bring their splendor back

For they believe, with certainty, once damage has been wrought
Those tiny cracks, now filled with light, hold truths that can't be taught.

You are my sword and shield
you are my suit of armor
you are the helm upon my head,
the feather in my hair.
You smile and my spine straightens
my shoulders broaden
my muscles swell.
Someone tries to tell me that
your love is a sin
and my laughter is a spear
and the memory of your hand in mine
turns my heart to a weapon.
I am Achilles
and David
and Joan of Arc
I am Hua Mulan.
You kiss me and your breath
turns my lungs to billows,
your blood is in my veins
and not a drop will spill.
I can fight anyone
I can do anything
if it’s done in the name of you.

The carrion birds are circling overhead
and I’m dragging my half dead body
down a deserted street thinking to myself
this is when the credits roll for me
and I’m not so sure I’ve the energy to mind
but then there is the ghost of your hand
brushing against my cheek and oh
oh god I could cry for wanting you.

I breathe in a deep gasping lungful of air
I’d just convinced myself I wouldn’t miss
because someday someday maybe soon
I might be able to take that air from you
I might be able to turn my head and brush
my mouth with yours in a disbelieving caress
to touch your lips with just the tip of my tongue
in abject adoration of you.

And oh just the thought of it
just the force of my want
has frightened away the vultures again.

My body is still half dead but my heart bangs on
for you for you for you