I was at a party the other day
I don't usually go to parties
I don't like crowds
I don't like gatherings
I don't like, new people.
But I'm here as a favour to a friend,
And so I stand in this hovel
That looks like the dodgy part of *****
Or the ganglands of Gomorrah,
Pathetically clutching my long empty beer bottle
And breathing in air that's more smoke than oxygen.
Desperately hoping
That if I pretend to be drunk enough
I wont have to meet anybody new.

But as luck would often have it
As luck and I do not get on
My friend beckons me from a darkened corner
Surrounded by people I don't know.
She's confident, enigmatic and wants me to come over.
And because I owe her a favour I cant say no
And so I trudge towards her with all the enthusiasm
Of an arthritic Labrador, dragging my hind legs
Across the sweat stained carpet
Bracing myself for someone new.

And as I place one foot in front of the other
I can practically see the outline of the gallows.
And I notice that the walls really are an especially ugly colour
And that boy surely isn't old enough to be drinking without permission from his mother.
And someone please tell those guys not to put the owners dog in the oven.
And I wonder if I should break up those limb tangled lovers
Because I hear that that one, who's dating that one, gave that one chlamydia
and suddenly the air is too thick
And too hot
But my feet will not stop.
Because I owe my friend a favour.
But this hideous carpet might as well be an ocean
Because believe me, I'm drowning, adrift.
This feels like I've left my stomach
Somewhere four feet behind me
And I've always been so used to listening to my gut.

This is not fear, this is anxiety
The two are so easily confused, but
Unfortunately by now I know the difference
More intimately than many people do.
Fear is a cold steel
Sharp knife, with smooth un-serrated edges
That drives into your chest or your head or your belly
And it takes what it wants from you, and then is wrenched back out
And its painful, but its usually there for a reason.
Fear can be conquered
Don't laugh I've seen it
Fear grapples with the human spirit in the eyes of every
Soldier still fighting
No matter what the battlefield.
Be it desert or office or kitchen or playground.

But anxiety is fears younger cousin
and it is a wire sponge against your chest
Like the ones they use on cleaning dishes.
And it grates at you until you're raw
And scrubs at every inch of skin
There's hardly a moment when you're not itchingly pink
Until it feels as though your ribs are utterly exposed
And every eye is fixed on what you hide within.
But that's not the worst thing about it.
That's not what drives you every second, mad.
I can handle the razor winged moths that make a home in my stomach
The worst, is the irrational nature of this relative of fear.

I should not be afraid to open my mouth
To be seen, and immediately judged
Even though I know in reality
The most important people won't reckon me
On the first impression, first look, first word.
But I still am
I am scared, and that is terrifying.
And I know that this might just pass
It could be teenage angst
My lack of self confidence holding me back.
But whatever it is.
Right now, it is Everest.
So don't you dare tell me just to get over it.

But as I sidle up beside my best friend, I know she doesn't understand
And I hope she never does.
One, Two, Three.
Three people who are new,
Three epinephrine shots of irrational anxiety pumping through my blood.
And she smiles so encouragingly,
All yellow and marmoset eager.
And I take one, two, three deep breaths of smoky air,
And let my mind play marionette to the corners of my mouth,
Tugging them into a smile that's somewhat believable.
And the first word that tumbles out of my mouth is a hideously unimaginative,
“Hey.”
But they don't seem to mind.

This small talk we're making, that for me is colossal
Gradually settles the pinpricks of venom beneath my skin
Into something entirely more manageable.
And by the end of the night
Two of those three people are no longer somebody new.
And I feel as though I've made the progress of a few meters
In climbing my Everest.
But there's still miles and miles to go.  
But the thing to remember...
What I must remember,
No matter what mountain anxiety builds for you,
Be it Atlas or Snowdon,
Be it at a school, or an office or at home,
Every step that we make, on our own or pushed forward by friends
Is another meter or mile, on this arduous road
That will eventually lead to a summit, ten times more beautiful
Than the valley we just left below.

I was raised by a mentally ill father.
Because there is comfort in numbers,
I, too, was afflicted by a similar disorder.
It’s difficult to separate the person from the sickness,
Sometimes impossible.
Sometimes we become the shadowy monster,
Embrace it with wilted roses,
Knowing too well that of everything else,
The disorder will still be there,
Waiting.
My shadow has been dormant.
My father’s is still active,
Seeking.
Sometimes when we meet it’s like a perfect storm,
A tornado of comfort.
Someone understands the climate.
I take my father’s hand encouragingly,
He turns to run, squirrely,
The shadow greets me with open arms.
I love the shadow as much as I love the man.
After all, there is comfort in numbers.

"Do you like wasabi peas?"

She hands me a small sage-green orb.

"It's hot, spicy," she says, nodding encouragingly. "Have you ever had wasabi?"

It tastes like horseradish and is not at all spicy in comparison to the chile-spiced mango I've been snacking on. I nod and smile to her approvingly.

Before I know it, she's handing me a chocolate sandwich cookie and without saying a word, going back to the duty of putting away the groceries. It's delicious.

Jivy, upbeat soul music blasts from an iPhone speaker dock. The kitchen faucet is running. Cabinets, the dish washer, opening and closing like a delicate rhythm.

He was building a fire pit outside, thick white smoke billowing up into the sky. But it started to pour a soft summer rain, as it had two or three times already that day. The world beyond the kitchen is grey, wet, happy. The shabby porch is used to being drenched in rain, the mason jars filled with dead cigarettes and the disarrayed furniture.

With more than one person in the narrow stretch of kitchen, it's a crowed party. I watch on from my chair in the breakfast nook. She chops vegetables on the counter for cold gazpacho soup.

She, in a delicate red rose skirt. The men except for me in cargo shorts.

I'm drinking flat Dr. Pepper from a painted mug, instead of something hard like I might want. The sip of black beer he gave me tasted like soy sauce. It fizzled on the porch a bit.

"Oh, ****!" he said, putting his hand with the overflowing beer out the door while standing partly inside.

/

Asking the cook for permission, he sits down across from me and begins to sing a song on a guitar. A sad song, one that he's played before. Maybe the only one he knows.

I sit in my chair and watch it all go by. I take out a book from my bag to look like I want to read it. I'm really just sitting here, like a fly stuck tragically on the fly paper he hung in the kitchen two nights ago. Lying there all sprawled awkwardly, eyes open to what's around me.

He finishes the song. "Beautiful," she says, gathering papery remains of an onion and tossing them into a plastic bin. He strums another tune. His voice is untrained and not hard to listen to if not a tad syrupy and self-aware. A bit like the way he carries his wide personality.

He answers questions from across the room, interrupting the melody for a few seconds now and then. The two men are on separate wavelengths. But the singer didn't seem to mind being interrupted. They must have grown up with this dynamic, the men. It's a story they tell easily.

/

"Buongiorno!" she says, slicing a lemon.

"Hey, you have a nice accent. Arrivederci!" says the guitar-player.

"Arrivederci!" she responds, playing up the dialect with sweetness.

"Good deal." He says, striking up another tune. He puts on a different voice. Deeper, with more swing, like a caricature country-western singer. His voice fills the space.

Our mugs are gathered all together, mixed up in a menagerie of colors and shapes at the end of the kitchen counter. I brought several of mine from home and they mingle with the others unnoticeably. Multi-colored ones from Poland. Mine, purchased at various thrift stores. All of them stacked awkwardly and happy.

He asks me if I want to share a smoke on the wet porch. I say "Not right now. Maybe later, though."

In a bustling bus lingered a vacuous seat.
'She's impure,' they proclaimed; indiscreet.
The poor woman wept- shedding tear after tear.
'Don't sit next to her,' they warned with a sneer.

The wide-eyed girl looked on in curious worry,
As the fierce conductor tried to make the woman scurry.
The amused passengers laughed on encouragingly
As he tugged at her bag, her hand, even her dignity.

Spurned by the hospital; in society she had no place
For she had not the money to be referred to as a 'case'.
Her sole possessions- her disease and her fright.
The doctorless patient drowned in her ceaseless plight.

Melancholia stared deep into the girl's wide eyes.
They welled with desolation as she heard the cries.
Her dream of being a doctor would soon come true,
But oh doctorless patient, what will become of you?

His finger tapped the book,
Encouragingly and gentle,
That old finger,
That had pulled triggers in the war,
That had touched his girls in tender ways,
He gave me a smile and tapped again,
Sunlight shining in his grey hair,
In his beautiful eyes,
I haven't looked down yet,
And he was still tapping,
I was thinking of his many crinkles,
Smile creases and frown wrinkles,
The day was ending,
I should leave soon,
I should look down,
But mesmerizing, was his teeth,
And I stared and counted,
And I observed his ear hairs,
And nose hairs, and beard hairs,
But the old man tapped again,
On the blank strathmore page,
I haven't drawn him yet,
His green eyes fail with the falling of the light,
I hurriedly drew him,
He paid for my work,
A work that dissatisfied,
So I went home,
And wrote about him,
Filling a page and a half.
                           from firefly

The people say we
Are a force to be reckoned with.

Malleable minds
Keeping up with the
Times.

A comfortable content,
Encouragingly hell-bent.

Let's change lives
Or even just one.
Right
before this feels done.

A force to be reckoned with,
You and I.

Let's set something afloat,
Before it's time
For me to
Rip out
Your
Throat.

The thought of you holds sleep at bay
Do you ever think of me?
I think of you
In landscapes I wander
Dreamless and weary
Searching for that familiar face
Remember how we laughed the first date?
You smiled encouragingly as I opened up
I remember the second
And you opening the door not just the car
But the one to your soul
And the third when you held me close, and kept the cold at bay
When your lips first touched mine
I was shocked and felt so alive
It was that day. That evening.
That was the last day you
Shared your love with me
You were slow to respond
And I felt like a hit and run victim
You order me to move on
And I an obedient soldier,
Do my best
But I just wander lost in love or lust
I don't know
Visions of you flicker across my eyes
Painting the sky in shades of red and blue
I am shell shocked,
My pulse racing to unknown ends
And to make amends
Would it **** you?
To tell me why?

It was 64ºf and overcast this morning when Lisa and I started our 5-mile jog to the New Haven Harbor and back. We always start our semesters this way. We’re emotionally ready for fall weather and hopefully, a long and cruel winter.

Sunny, Lisa, Leong and I were starting the morning with breakfast together. We have summer catching up to do.

Of course, Sunny never does the expected. Over a bowl of heart-shaped Cheerios in the cafeteria, she announced that she’s “really going to try this year.”
“That's a choice,” Leong admitted dryly.
“You mean academically?” Lisa asked, for clarification purposes.
“Wait,” Leong updogged, “Did your parents ask for proof that you were here?”
Sunny rolled her eyes, she knew she’d get trolled with a newfangled declaration like that, but she meant it and she wasn’t tempted to elaborate.
“You’re a phoenix, rising from the ashes,” I said encouragingly.
“It’s a 4th in a lifetime opportunity,” Lisa noted.
Handling university academics is largely a structural task.
All it requires is artfully arranging information and slices of time.
“You’ve got this,” I affirmed.
“Let’s not get excited,” Sunny cautioned, “One reason I’m so hot is that I’m emotionally unavailable.”
“It’s your best quality.” Leong observed.

Tick tock, we’re all still unpacking but things are taking shape. Senior year starts in 3 days.
.
.
A song for this:
Suddenly I See by KT Tunstall
Don't You Worry 'Bout A Thing by Stevie Wonder

Mary, the daughter of some parental friends, is on her high-school-senior college-tour and my mom (on Face Time) told me their plans called for them to be in New Haven over the weekend.

Mom, “Would you mind taking an hour to give her a campus tour?”
I rolled my eyes saying, “I barely know the place myself.”
She waited silently with obvious, parental patience.
“I’ve got a TON of homework,” I pleaded.
“I’d owe you,” she said, encouragingly.
I sighed, struggling with my new and heavy burden, “ALL right,” I groaned.

Mary and I know each other from hospital events we couldn’t avoid (her dad is an emergency surgeon) but we’ve never hit it off.

I take some pride in being able to talk about anything - from football to politics or movies to fashion but Mary’s one and only interest is guys.

Mary’s one of those girls who HAS to have a boyfriend - like there’s a municipal ordinance requiring one - and just about any guy will do. She didn’t even have to particularly like them but they had to be Instagram pretty.

So any time I’d see her (we didn’t go to the same school) she’d have a Tom or Ed or Frank in tow, filling that boyfriend requirement and due to the high boyfriend turnover rate, she’d constantly and embarrassingly flirt with other potential boyfriends right in front of Mr. Now. It was enough to shame my gender.

A typical Mary conversation:
“Are you dating anyone?” She’d ask.
“No,” I’d admit.
“You’re just shy,” she’d say, “You just need to put yourself out there.”
She was positive and encouraging, even in the face of increased competition.
“I used to be shy,” she revealed. Which I doubted very much.

Anyway, once they (her Mom joined us) were certified vaccinated, we got a student volunteer for a real Yale tour. I love the “Harry Potter” look of old campus. (COVID restrictions limit where visitors can go).

I find I already have a sense of “ownership” here and I secretly hope she ends up somewhere else. I waved as they drove off, wishing her a bucket of instagram smiles.

Lips,
Corners turned upwards,
As they are softly pressed,
Against another gentle pair.
Part slightly,
Giggles slither out,
When tickled,
Aroused,
By a light breath.
Hands,
Intertwined,
Squeezing reassuringly,
Also encouragingly,
Move effortlessly,
To trace the structure,
And its importance,
Enticing the senses.

Done for,
Sealed the deal.

“Everyone goes through this,” they say, comfortingly
“Everyone gets over it.” I hear, disheartened
“So many people care about you.” They say, encouragingly
“Don’t disappoint those who care for you.” I hear, dejected
“You’ve done so much to be proud of!” They say, smiling
“What happened to the you who did things?” I hear, terrified
“This happens to me all the time; don’t worry.” They say, reassuring
“Be better.” I hear. I’m not you. And I’m petrified.  
“These things take time. Be patient.” They say, concerned
“Get over it already.” I hear, numb
“Ignore your brain trying to get you down.” They say, supportive
“Don’t trust yourself.” I hear. Save me. I’m not ok.
I’m afraid of my own feelings.
“This is normal.” They say.
I spend 3 hours just staring at the ceiling.
“Take it one step at a time.”
I feeling like I’m slowly withering away.
“Don’t give up!”
I’m just going through the motions everyday
“See? You’re getting better!” They say, cheerful.
For them, I try
“I’m fine.” I say, hesitant and fearful
They believe me, satisfied.
*I’m a liar.

"I look like a melting gargoyle when I cry."

She laughed, like wind-chimes in sunlight, soothing and warm. She replied, "You don't have to show me."

"Will this really work? I feel silly."

"Well you won't know unless you try, now will you?" She smiled.

"Okay, okay. Like this?" I asked, crossing my hands over my chest.

"Kinda," She reached out and adjusted my hands slightly, "Like that, gently, like you're holding a baby bird against your heart."

She let go of my hands and floated backwards a pace, watching me encouragingly.

Still feeling silly, I tried to clear my mind, while remembering her instructions;

Focus, stay relaxed...

OK.

Think of hope, I told myself, and as I did I began to bring my cupped hands down away from my chest and hold them facing the sky.

"*******!" She exclaimed, leaning in, her face alight with - something.  

I started to lower my hands, thinking as I do, that she was poking fun.

Her face fell, and her hands shot out like lightning, gently bracing my hands and preventing me from lowering them. "Don't be shy," she smiled softly.

I looked up into her eyes, wary, but her face showed only concern.  I looked down again, ashamed of my reaction, and she ducked her head to maintain eye contact.  "You're a squirmy one, aren'cha?"

I felt my face flush, but I laughed, despite my anxiety.

She nodded towards my hands, "Don'cha wanna know what I see?"

I saw nothing. "Sure," I said, trying not to sound skeptical.

Apparently I failed because she let out another peal of chiming laughter.  She seemed to sober a bit, without losing her carefree smile and leaned in a bit more closely.  She peered into the bowl formed by my cupped hands like it was filled with stars instead of empty air.

She remained like that for what seemed an eternity.  I held as still as I could, awaiting her judgment.  She straightened and looked at me, very seriously.  Her face was not hard, exactly, it was like a waterfall that had just stopped falling, all trace of humor was gone.

"Why are you ashamed of me?" She asked softly, no anger or hurt, just concern.

"I..." I didn't actually know how to answer.  I thought for a moment, the both of us standing there, with her holding my hands like a fortune teller.

"I think I have just been convinced, over and over, that I should be." I said somberly.

"Silly boy," she replied, her face once again alive with that same ephemeral light.  "Don't you know?  People will tell themselves all kinds of things when they're hurting.  Don't you go and let hurt steal your hope, your light!"  

I hung my head a bit, somewhere, deep down, I did know.

She shook her head slightly, and smiling a bemused little smirk, she glided closer.  With her left hand she began to push my hands back up towards my chest, and brought her right hand around to cup the back of my neck, simultaneously drawing our foreheads together.

Her eyes drifted nearly closed, as if she was falling into a trance, and as my hands reached my chest she whispered something I could not quite understand.

I saw it first in her eyes, a faint glow, and as she finished her short silent prayer the tiny glow flared into uproarious brilliance!  The blinding light suffused us, filling my vision with blue/white fire.  

Hope's warm countenance floated before me now in the heart of a star, and just before I awoke, I realized that the light was coming not from her eyes, but from beneath my cradled hands.

We’re coming up on the spooky pumpkin-latte season, when days suddenly end, while I’m busy in some sterile, fluorescent chemistry-lab and there’s nothing to do but walk down dark science-hill to the dorm.

Is that rustling the sound of leaves or footsteps?  The most effective horror stories come from spaces of doubt and hover between reality and possibility - but no fears, this isn’t my Halloween story.

Apparently, there was a scandal last year, about underage girls being served at bars around Yale - I mean, seriously, who knew? Sunny’s still having fun. She’s out every other night like a hunting cat ‘meeting’ all these new freshie girls. She has the best takes. Her hungover Sunday morning debriefs are not to be missed.

I’ve gotten comments that suggested that the party lives of U-girls are seen as dysfunctional, but to me they’re perfectly normal. Everyone seems to want college life to be saccharine and sanitized. I figure most students live highly stressed lives. We’re expected to show up to multiple classes, on time, prepared and be ready to perform at the highest levels academically - then add to these pressures our elaborate social and study demands. Young adulthood is strict in ways you may not remember. Poor us. sigh So we have a little fun.

I’ve been bottled-up, by and large, this semester - mostly by my own twisted need to get ahead in every subject and I joined a Yale Society - dumb, I know, like I have the time. But I was tapped and Annick (my sister) said “DO IT!” I bet I quit when the going gets tough.
Why did I think senior year would be easier?  

Fall semester is a time famous for freshmen heartbreak - with everyone newly away from home and old boyfriends. About that...

I hate it when boyfriends get old
and you have to get rid of them.
Not chronologically old - don’t call your lawyer,
this isn’t ageism rearing its ugly head.

There’s the chafing-like pre-breakup irritation,
because you’re suddenly separated by distance
and experience. it’s easy to feel out of touch and
unable to voice your joy about the new life you’re living.

It’s the little things that tend to bother you first, like the sudden
strangeness of lingering silence on the once-exciting video calls.
Ugg, breakups - the subject freaks me out - I get shivers up my spine
and feel nauseous, just thinking about them - I’m not mocking heartbreak.

Where was I? Oh, yeah.
Adolescence should feature at least one earth-shaking, world-shifting, heartbreaking first love - unless, of course, covid happened.
Do I harp back to covid lockdown too much?
Well, it happened. It was our Vietnam, and we were unprepared.

There’s a guy showing me some persistent interest - something I have no time for - or interest in. He’s a tall, sporty, transfer student from Princeton. Not unattractive, in a sort of eager, and dense, hipster way.
“I have a boyfriend,” I told him, hoping he'd lose interest.
“He must be invisible,” he observed, several days later.
Then, “If you’d give me a chance, you’d soon find out I’m a sparkling conversationalist.” He updogged.
“Introverts,” I said, “we should be running the world, but no one listens to us.”
“I like a woman with ambition,” he said, encouragingly.
“Go away,” I replied, and he did.
But he was back in the morning because he’s in my residence and we share a shuttle bus stop. sigh

Question: Why are they still calling storms hurricanes?
I mean, now that they can have male or female names, shouldn’t they be themicanes?
.
.
A song for this:
Alfie by Cilla Black
Does Everyone Stare by The Police

The world I inhabited
was speckled with eyes-
malicious eyes, watching my every move-
it was a terrifying place.

I could feel that everything
was alive around me.
Everything had a heartbeat
and everything breathed its hot breath on me.

I wanted to hide
but the eyes were everywhere.
They were on buildings,
ingrained in trees,
peering through every *****, city window.

I ran as far as I could
until there was no where else to run.
I was as close to the sky as possible,
feeling the world's musty breath
rake through my hair.

The sky was dark and gray
and the clouds glared at me angrily,
wondering why I would venture so close to their territory.
I tried to tell them
that it was my last option,
there was no where else to run,
but they wouldn't listen.

Bumps
formed on my pale skin.
Goosebumps.
The dark clouds were pushed away by a cool breeze.
The sky cleared,
showing its bright blue face.
The only clouds left
were white and puffy.
They had faces,
but they were smiling at me.

I inspected the clouds closely.
Within each cloud were multiple faces-
they were the faces of every god, every deity, every spirit-
that ever was.
They smiled at me
and I felt my face forming a small grin.

I could feel the walls around me breathing,
I could see them inhaling and exhaling.
They were surrounding me,
protecting me like a father.
I glanced at the buildings that dotted the sky.
They smiled at me, too.

I could feel everything in the world around me
releasing feelings
and asking for me to do the same.
The eyes looked at me encouragingly,
coaxing me to join the world.

I breathed a deep breath,
in and out,
and felt the world do the same.

Your first lover?
My moon.
Your second lover?
My sun.
Your husband?  
My depth of despair.  
Your children?  
My world.  
Your family?
My stars.
You friends?
My growth.  
And you?
Myself.
     Why is he your moon?
He is my sweet caress of night.
Why is he your sun?
He is the blaze upon my skin.
Why is he your despair?
For there is no love anymore.  
Why are they your world?  
For I am nothing without them.
Why are they your stars?
For they look down upon me encouragingly.  
Why are they your growth?  
Without them my world would not survive.  Why are you yourself?  
Who else am I supposed to be?

INT. CENTRAL PERK - DAY

The Friends are all sitting on the couch, chatting and sipping their coffee. Joey bursts in, holding a large box.

JOEY: Hey, guys! Check it out! I got a new entertainment system!

MONICA: (sarcastically) Oh, great. Another giant box to clutter up our tiny apartments.

JOEY: (ignoring her) I need your help setting it up. Who's in?

Chandler, Phoebe, and Ross all raise their hands, but Rachel and Monica look hesitant.

RACHEL: (doubtfully) I don't know, Joey. This sounds like a lot of work.

JOEY: (encouragingly) Come on, Rach. It'll be fun! And I'll even order us a pizza.

MONICA: (smiling) Okay, I'm in.

Rachel reluctantly agrees, and the Friends start setting up the entertainment system. Joey pulls out a large instruction manual and starts reading out loud.

JOEY: (confused) Okay, it says we need to connect the yellow cord to the blue input, but I don't see a blue input.

CHANDLER: (sarcastically) Well, Joey, have you tried turning it off and on again?

PHOEBE: (jokingly) Maybe you need to sacrifice a chicken to the technology gods.

Ross, Monica, and Joey start arguing over the proper way to set up the system, while Chandler and Phoebe start making up ridiculous solutions. Rachel sits off to the side, looking amused but uninterested.

RACHEL: (smiling) You know, I have an idea. Let's just call the Geek Squad and let them deal with it.

JOEY: (defeated) Yeah, I guess you're right. I'll call them tomorrow.

MONICA: (frustrated) Ugh, I can't believe we wasted all this time on nothing.

PHOEBE: (smiling) Well, at least we got to spend time together.

CHANDLER: (nodding) And we'll always have the memories of that time Joey accidentally shocked himself with the power cord.

Joey looks embarrassed as the Friends all laugh, and the camera fades out on their good-natured teasing and banter.

So here you are.

Mingled in with all my other far-fetched fantasies
Of composing epic poems and
Traveling to romantic cities and
Laughing much too loud over expensive wine

You have always presented yourself to me just out of reach
Unattainably attainable
Slinking out of sight behind the crumbling brick of my dreams

Could you ever forgive me for this poem?
My words seem to fall all wrong, don't they?
What do you expect though,
When you've made yourself so ineffable to me?

How could I ever describe the tender heaviness in your longing glances across untouchable boundaries?
With what words am I allowed to illustrate the wind rising sharply against the silent night where I stand alone in the trees and burn for you?
Is there an alphabet emotionally eloquent enough to depict our undeclared flame of devotion?

It's taken me years, but I'm beginning to piece it all together
Perhaps it's the way I can feel your eyes burning in my mind, though your gaze remains averted where you stand before me
Or the way you touch me in my subconscious with hands I can never hold in my own
Speak encouragingly to me with a voice I haven't heard in years, and may never hear again

Even as your path drifts far from mine, and numerous lifetimes pass us by
We can always meet again
At the Yellow House or
the Green Room or
the White Bed:
The places where you changed me.

And when I'm sitting in a bar drinking a glass of Chateau Lafite
Somewhere in Paris
Writing an epic poem and laughing much, much too loud

I'll take solace knowing you're thinking of me, too
In your own far fetched fantasies of what could have been.