languidly glows in your cheeks,
just north of
the lip you split trying
to tell me you loved me without
saying you loved me.
breaks burgundy behind
your head, silhouetting
every piece of heathered forgiveness
we earned without merit.
It rises and splatters
in my chest like laughter and it
shines from your eyes to
the edge of your jaw.
solidifies sunrises in memory,
with hallowed rays streaming
haloed from your long lashes
and the way my chest shudders with
the scent of you.
swirls early in whispers like dew steaming
toward balmy April ether.
It supersedes time as it
unwinds the hands on the clock,
flexing post-Friday and
Saturday morning is everything
delicate and divine
that is ever-coursing from
my soul to yours:
I love Saturday morning
because I first loved you.
The old woman at the bus stop
is a lover of all things:
I can see it in her tired smile
and the way her hands
are determined not to shake
as she colors in the squares of
today’s crossword puzzle.
Focused on her mosaic, she
does not hear
my scraping footsteps or
As I collapse next to her, everything is
quiet and I
hear her blood rushing
in her veins, singing a melody her
I pretend I am her for
five sacred minutes,
finding mirrors in puddles
on the pavement and
battling time and gravity
trying not to sink through the sidewalk into sewer
trying to spend eternity here.
But the bus comes like always,
screaming silence into oblivion and
ripping loose newspaper pages
from their holy tranquility between
two leathery palms
and tearing the old woman and me
Come down from the heavens, honey;
Earth feels like hell when you're not here.
Midday is almost dark; the
ashen sky holds its breath
rain buzzes between cloud and sun
leaves drift, blurred,
in slow frames through molasses space
and kiss the sidewalk with thundering authority.
Between the daisies, lightning sprouts and splits,
spitting stripped splinters into heaven
then pausing, fingers frozen, posed –
a portrait of aloof elegance.
Midday is blinding, deafening,
nature's cinematic masterpiece:
terrifying, thrilling, and everything but numbing.
Dramatic irony flowed freely
from all the poems I wrote
about how I didn't write poems about you
and wedged itself in the spaces
between my heartbeats.
And there you slept sweetly
warming my aching ribs and
getting drunk on my tears every night I
for the miles between us,
and all the purported reasons I shouldn't love
Now poetic justice tumbles forward
from desire into delight
it’s plastered to my skin
and it feels just like you.
The staircase that leads to her heart has no hand rails. No grab bars. You must measure your steps carefully, finding the right balance between what you want from her and what she really needs from you.