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.

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

It pains me, a bit
to think about the possibilities
of life if you were here,
if I could watch your smile
bloom upon your face
see the signs of laughter brewing
just after I’ve said something silly.
I’d cook you dinner
and blush with happiness
when you teased me for my
utter lack of skill
and after you would make hot cocoa
for our movie marathon
and we’d have punch drunk discussions
on the philosophy of psychopathic ******
for dessert.
While the credits rolled
your eyes would droop
and your head, heavy with sleep
would rest sweetly on my shoulder.

Would I kiss you, then?
Softly, so as not to ruin the mood?
Or fierce and biting with the breaking
of long-held restraint?
Would you invite me to your bed?
And if you did, would I accept?
Or would I stroke your hair
and kiss you a gentle goodnight
at your bedroom door?
Would we grow old together,
counting wrinkles as they form,
marking the days with
ridiculous anniversaries:
first kiss, first fight, first joint bout of pyromania?
Or would it end, perish early
like so many things are wont to do?

Would you die first?
Or would I?
And when we were gone
would we have anyone
to tell stories about us
and the crazy things we no doubt said and did?

Would I ever tell you this poem was about you?
Maybe.
Maybe, if you were here, I could.

My brain is a sieve.

Most of the words of this poem have dripped out
on the road
on my shirt
on the front step as I fumbled for my keys.

I think it was something about
starlight and loving you
but then that’s no surprise.
At this point the structure of my DNA
is sonnets I composed for you
and free verse you’ll read and think
is about someone else.
The kinds of words you’ll coo about
and caress in your mind
and shower me with praise over
like a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek
when I want and want and want you.

But I suppose we’ll never know, now
what this poem was going to be about.

It’s my brain, you see.

It’s a sieve.

The saddest poem I ever wrote
was the “goodbye” I whispered
on the skin of your temple
so softly you didn’t hear it
until the fifth time you called
and I didn’t pick up
when the voicemail you left
was ten seconds of silence
followed by a sigh
as you took the phone from your ear.

My lips clash against a bottle mouth and
my mouth strangles a cigarette and
my teeth clamp down on a paint soaked brush and
my tongue taps my teeth in taunts against
your lover, The Cause and
I wonder if ever you will
tilt your angel face down from your pedestal
and command me tell you why,

my body is your mannequin to pose
though I'm not malleable enough for you,
my skin is yours to wear for a cloak
though it's too large and rough, oh Apollo,
my heart is yours to fill with bullet holes
and that at least might be to your liking,

and I'll bare my teeth in wolfish joy
as the guns blaze and
molten metal makes a home in my chest
and all I will feel is your hand in mine
your hand
your hand
your hand

I’ve had coming home
and I’ve had fireworks
and then,
and then,
there’s you.

And you are,
heartfelt smiles
on the face of a stranger,
And you are,
fields of flowers
with faces tipped to the sun,
And you are,
fogged bathroom mirrors
painted in condensation hearts.

And you, you are,
a resolution
worth keeping, and keeping, and keeping.

Sometimes I think about
the structure of atoms
and how difficult it can be
to tell the difference between me
and the cantaloupe I just ate
and where I end
and the sunlight begins.
And I wonder
if maybe when you kiss me
you leave behind pieces of yourself
on my tongue
and that’s why I remember
exactly how you taste
no matter how long it’s been.

Sometimes I think about
quantum entanglement
and how two different particles
can be inextricably and inexplicably
tied to each other
no matter their physical distance.
And I wonder
if maybe a tiny piece of your left iris
is entangled with an atom
in the muscle of my cheek
and that’s why
I can’t help but smile
when you look at me.

Sometimes I think about
our understanding of DNA
and how so much of it we call “junk”
because we don’t know what it does.
And I wonder
if maybe years from now
they’ll be able to read my base pairs
like a novel
and some scientist
will be able to look at them and say
“This,
just here,
this is how we know
the subject fell in love.”