how many of you
do I have to ****,
to gracefully unravel
a written rose from
the depths
of my soul?

i travel into the past
and i pick apart the memories
unbuilt to last,
quicksand thoughts
turning
in on me,
laughter on the beach
belittling lover
intoxication stare
one by one collapsing onto me
enticing me to revisit,
as if asking to refill
when my night is all but empty,

I don't dare.
i will stay put in my moment
the present tense is nothing
but a gift from my past you see,
I will only glance in your direction,
sweet memory
I dare not linger
within the depth of
your engulfing nostalgia,
for if I do
i will surely
turn into
a tear.

there are some things
that are just written in ink.
the books that line my shelf
the music I play with my fingers
the startling waves I attempt to hurdle
my surfboard over
the recipe my abuelita passed down to
me of her famous tamales
my subscription to Bon Appetit
these constants anchoring me
when characters sketched by
pencil become too faint to feel,
its these delicate yet sturdy constants
that yank me out of sadness
with a "remember me?!"
with a "remember your abilities, young lady!"
"remember your divine calling to perpetually grow!"

darkness met the boy
and the boy in turn chose darkness
with older age

darkness met the girl
and the girl in turn chose lightness
with older age

and even though the two were both met with darkness,
their choices paved their paths
towards negative or positive
towards light and heavy,
easy and hard

the problem was when those paths
crossed back into each other
battling to find common ground,
finding a language within
the turmoil of their choices,
when love was created in the
rubble of their crossed paths.

i can smell a poet a mile away
who only wishes
to read their poetry to you,

who prods and pulls
away at your brain for insight -
what about this word?
and
let me tell you of the girl
who broke my heart enough times
for me to procure this poem!

i smile and offer
the best of my critiques of course
empathy running too far into my core
and the naive understanding that all
poets hold the same truth.

and as i begin to take the baton
to set out on my journey of recitement,
i see my comrades eyes glaze over
to the toaster where her thoughts now linger
and remain.

and not as i had hoped on the syllables
and motifs i had painfully extracted
in the midnight hours of my
bedroom rumination.

and there your brain remains
as i run my last lap around the
sweet syllables of my favorite words.

sometimes ill carry your book in my purse,
not because i have any intention of reading your words,
but because i want to have a kindred soul
to my disposal when needed.