My silence is interrupted by
the constant hum of your baritone.
It is white noise to me now;
a subtle clamor that comforts
my lonely ears, a sad reminder
of how far away love gets.

You move through the hallway
tile by tile; step by cautious step
as you explore every
sound the scooter makes;
every moment new and
wonderful.

You tiptoe, dip your toes down
and lightly dust the floor,
skim it like the first time in
the shallow pool of the bath.

Then you step, push,
slide down the hall
leaving care in your wake
like discarded cheerios and
chewed up apple bits.

You stop, smile at
this new secret
the world whispered
as I lift you up into my arms.

She teaches her body to ache for him
move for him and dress for him
reject the familiar banter and comfort
in knowing he is close.
She banishes familiar kisses
to muster the mystery
that moistens her;
she loves him but she has
each molecule committed to memory.

This is love, yes
but she must back pedal a bit,
clear the air to feel the ping in her inner pit
when he comes near-
just like it was, just like it used to be
before they occupied each others’ hearts.

When he was just a body at the bar.
When he was just a dark haired conquest.
When she was just a hungry girl.
Feed me, she says.
Feed me.

She denies each year that creeps
into her fragile bones as
careless creases inch around her eyes
and we shelter her,
carry her and care for her;
calm her when she weeps,
stroke her hair as she sleeps and
breathe shallow as we hope
she makes it
through another year,
month, week--

stop.

She never wanted the
fetus now flushed
into the void of all
unwanted things;
rejected from a life
it could not choose.

It would have been
just another crutch
she never used.

I wonder if she shrugged
as she lost you,
tiny one?
Shrugged as you held on tight...

You existed then were gone
like a hiccup,
like a dream, so real-
until eyes re-enter light.

She drowns herself in
percocet and loose joints
and she'll forget you
too soon;

stamp you down
into the mud of memories
squished into the back of the room.

Baltimore is the way we left it-
buzzing, reaching its arms out
like branches of a small tree.

Our tree was rooted in soft mud;
did not take much to topple down.
We chopped at the bone until the
core was cut.
No blood was shed, no blood
but so many tears.

Experience is as satisfying as a double whiskey sour
as a tired director tours middle america on foot:
a drifter doused in the aroma of greasy roadside diners,
sullying his brown suede boots in gritty mud and mica.

He thinks he is real american- as he scavenges
inspiration from a photo of a lone tree,
an overweight waitress,
a broken down motorcycle...

A small depression in the ***** pavement
is the most famous footprint most towns have seen;
they come and go as quickly as passing cars;
as quickly as fame and infamy.

He thumbs his way from
state to state, picked up in nowhere Ohio by
a passing Van filled with a burgeoning indie band.

They discuss irony, old films and a mutual
dislike of disco as the van storms past town after town.
The band tours the country looking for fame
as he tears from town to town attempting to forget it.

deep in the sweaty
jungle of my brain
as I sleep on silk down
you smiled at me, and
I loved you as I have not
loved any man in
many years; felt
that pang that pained me
in high school as I fell in love
again and
again and
again.

I followed you
through scores of doors
and crowded rooms as
you led me away.

Everything was familiar-
the light yellow wall paper,
scuffed marble floors,
dark hair, deep blue eyes
and wonderful soft lips-
so familiar but still,
a stranger;
a quiet indulgence
that leaves me energized,
confused,
elated at the memory
of panicked butterflies
in a long rusted cage.

I feel it all rush out of me
alone in the quiet of the dark
alone but seeping, silently
clawing the sheets.