I can't
Believe
I made you go away

I need a Time Wizard so I can recant
So I can retrieve
That guy I was yesterday
Yesterday
Who am I kidding

It's been three years
And
As cliche as this sounds
Every time
I have the slightest thought of
You
My ears tune in to my heartbeats
And they sound sad

Still.

i send my dreams
     to you
during the night

i wake you at odd hours
i trace my love poems
on your naked belly

with my fingertips
my gentle touch
arouses you in your

     sleep
wakes you across
time and distance

fills you with both
promise and desire
made whole and

     separate

Be reckless with your words to me;
incite, provoke, use words as lips
and teeth and hands and silk restraints.
Press them deep into my skin –
leave marks, leave late, and come again.

I heard painful derision of the nightfall
drawn me to seclude my talent
into the unknown place where it was not born futile.
It has been years since you ate my mind;
since we met in that strange road
where all melancholies diverged,
you have been my relief, my friend
and my witness when I was crippled by tears.

I seldom asked the mirrors, why should I continue?
If there are thousands of people outside our worlds
who could create you better than I,
who could make you more attractive than my pen?
Why should I continue my dreams?
And so I almost gave up, surrendered in peace;
I always wake up on the wrong side of the bed.

I was sailing edges of the oceans
just to seek for a masterpiece,
but I was fooled by my selfish intentions
and so I laughed at myself for length,
for there were a bunch of times
I could not even bestow you a single word.

I was totally bruised; buried my feet on the ground.
Others love my poetry, others just trifle,
others read it aloud that no one can hear,
others in facade of silence.
It matters no more, I have critics then.

I write not to impress, but simply to express
my undefined emotions, and unstitched fantasies.
Well, composing you is little bit hard for my part,
but you were a butterfly in my heart.

I’ve ordered and carried my steaming cup of brown to my table to ignore the falling snow beyond the walls of this box.
My clothes are wrong, my hair as well.
I just cut it, and everyone knows which mistakes I made.
A man sneezes and the song changes.
Better not make eye contact with anyone; I am not in their league, here at the muddy spoon cafe.
Chewing so loudly in the de-creeping silence,
these safe, polite, quiet ones.
I am the creep here. I am different.
My thighs are tense.
Hunching over the paper, arms tense and clutching  a gnarled red pen--
It’s probably self-indulgent to even sign my name.
Someone’s shuffling cards.
I almost forgot.
The awkwardness I’m filled with breathes out a short sigh when I realize
--my part’s over.
“Do you know Sanskrit? Do you know what that is?”
A woman asks another.
I want to choke on the pretension
The tenseness, I adjust my leg to relieve pressure on my ankle.
Why can’t I just enjoy the snow? That’s all I really came here for-- well, and the coffee.
I hear a woman cough with an unaffected tenor, which would convey her gender to an interested party but to me carries no intonation.
I wonder if the girl I recognize from class thinks I’m following her.
I came here for coffee, sweetheart!
Is it yet too hot for me to dare a drink?
I can see it, the steam, rising out of the corner of my eye.
I haven’t looked away from my hand in twenty minutes.
“Who am I?” they may be asking myself for me.
I don’t have a clue.
They can think about that problem
for themselves
while they’re lonely
in their forties.
I’m lonely now and I hope not to live
that long.
Here, we pretend not to see each other’s faces
in the gleaming presence of steaming cups.
“I don’t want to wonder about that.”
I realize there’s nothing I even deem worth writing down.