I drew a circle in the sky,
traced the way between
knowingness and truth,
visited uncertainty and full fledged fear,
and somewhere along that way
I found you.
I stopped and stared as I'm prone to do,
and we held hands for mere minutes
until our fingers lost grip
and I lost a bet with Cupid.

I drew a circle on my chest
and I let all the world come near to see.

Why do we cry when we lose?
Why do we laugh at misfortune?
What makes success seem so successful?

Can people hear our thoughts as we interpret theirs,
in judgmental, hyper sensitized vibrations?

I always said you’d break up with me,
(not seeing the power words have over us.)
Within seven months, before May grew pregnant,
you were gone.
You did not leave me as I feared, but you did not bypass my words,
which took over my tears and the gulps and swallows;
regenerating fresh saliva, to form more words, soon lost by the invisible hands on my cell phone,
misdirecting time so that the time spent with you went from now to then.

I spoke what I felt, what I thought to be utterly true
Because how could you love someone crumbling on the outside
and oozing with hot tar pain on the inside?
How could you love me?

You didn’t, you never said it, but I grew incapable of avoiding that metaphorical heart concept:

My heart dictated my hands that formed meals and massages and meltdowns.
You weathered my compulsions and the storms that overtook my countenance and threw you so far from my shore that even swimming to reach me took your patience and your prowess.

But you found a way. You always did. Every week, for months,
from a time when we melded egg white, egg yolk, to a time when oil and water tried in vain to caress.
I was your girl, and you answered my every problem with a solution,
And your eyes sought the truth in mine and we formed our own.
Us two, forever never and then.

I sat across from a man made of millions.
From his shiny black patent shoes to his dolphin patterned socks,
and his slicked back gray blonde hair, a color so elusive
Midas himself would find fault with designating blame,
I saw treachery.
If character were based on dress I would assign worth every time.
But people don't work that way: you must listen to what they say.
When he mentioned God and fate in the same breath as commissions and unlimited potential financially,
I went back to the socks.
Imagining the dolphins desperately trying to find someone else's socks,
someone less driven by green pieces of paper easily set aflame by
a deranged individual, someone like me,
who would not be so ludicrous, but entertained the notion,
would have more idealistic pure thought framing.
While the world runs in bounding strides to freedom from debt, from loans, from taxes, and money....stuff,
so that every "thing" materializes as a personal possession
and retirement happens at the unseemly age of 35,
but who will provide a home for the dolphins?

I would not throw my socks away as soon as the threads began to bare.
I would find some cerulean blue thread and weave in the ocean.

Despite your resignation and sudden departure,
shooting in the direction of Not Me as soon as my lips parted
and those fateful words escaped,

you never left.

The refuge of cool bedsheets in bedclothes on a bed too big for me
houses nightmares and a silent love affair,
neither tangible nor real,
but when the sun peers through the curtains and my REM becomes
remember, I do it; I sit up, kick back damp bedsheets and bedclothes
and let my feet dangle from the heights.

A cantaloupe, a fragrant pollen drenched lilly, ginger beer,
these are my companions in a desolate Whole Foods.
I stroke, smell, drink, relive the ecstasy of my own reveries,
the ones I created before I lay eyes on you,
before, when your name was merely a source of laughter,
like some fat obnoxious cartoon on television,
lovable and detestable in one viewing.

I walk to my car and turn the ignition-- that makes my fetal position
in fifteen minutes
significantly more realistic.

Somewhere between the interstate and the inter state of my mind,
the threads unravel and dissolve,
and the knot that stated not, no, never,
says yes, you **** well can, now, and always.

uncovering my emotions,
I sit in a plume of words,
washing over my senses,
clouding them over with potential
and destruction.

you sit in your straight back chair,
legs stretched out in front of you,
before you hesitate and put your feet
firmly on the ground.
my words are like the fan drowning
out your demons,
but providing no extra insight,
just white noise.

I talk in my sleep
because the words don't pass me in my
subconscious.
they rule over me, sometimes guiding,
sometimes hindering.

a pillow, sleeping aid, ear plugs,
conveniently placed on your nightstand
whenever I sleep in your bed.

our fingers touch, and our shoulders lean toward the other,
wondering if we will follow our bodies' lead.
but you roll to the other side and I mirror you.
strangers in a bed built for one,
occupied by two.

when I grew up I became a writer,
and at the same time all other
pursuits faded and floundered,
crumpling and whimpering like
puppies made of paper thin rose petals.

all my time is spent in thought,
warm wet puffy clouds of insight;
when I emerge in the light
of day with the mere mortals
chewing their complacency
like doe eyed, robotic cows,
my hands shake and my words run together.

I am too busy for the nonsense people call the daily grind,
that 9-5 mentality and the routine, oh the routine,
where we do what we hate so we have ten minutes to do
what we love and who we love.

Can't someone propose that we can do what we love
and get paid to do so, paid horrendously delicious amounts of money,
that would make basketball players blush and drug dealers cry?

For now I will take charge of this joblessness and settle into
my thoughts where I am free to roam
past streets filled with people waving at me and cheering me on;
I'll work your 9-5, and I'll spend a hearty 11 minutes
pouring my soul into my writing.

Sorry I'm late to work again.