In my mind, I'm putting all the things that remind me of you in a box to leave in the back shelf of my unconscious until these things have changed from objects of dispair, to ones I can look back on and smile about rather than frown - maybe not now, but somewhere, sometime, somehow hopefully soon:

a box of Cheerios because they were your favourite,

Colgate toothpaste because that's what you tasted like,

the notes you left in my locker when you used to pass by every morning,

a cantaloupe because "soft fruits help you kiss better,"

almonds, and nuts in general, because you always talked about bulking diets and were a little nuts to be honest,

a pair of Sperry's because you wore them with everything,

a movie ticket because that was our first "date," and you worked at the local theatre,

a hockey stick because you loved the sport with all your heart,

a CD with a single track on it: Let Her Go by Passenger because you told me that was your favourite song and I hope it's the one you listen to when thinking about me,

and last but certainly not least,
a vile of the scent you wore every single day that I could never manage to decipher even up to now.

- g.d.

I haven't stayed up this late
since our restless early morning contests
to see who would fall victim to
heavy eyelids and tired thoughts.
I won of course, you most of the time,
but I won on the longest nights (or so I'd like to think)
though my satisfaction was rooted from
something entirely different.
To be honest, I could have cared less about the victor;
I was competitive but I liked when you won -
the shine in your voice and
the glimmer in your smile telling me
how I snored through the night (I didn't)
was much more rewarding.

I haven't stayed up this long
since our late night conversations
turned into early morning slurred sentences
of who could make the most sense
whilst repeating I love you
inaudibly through earphone speakers
and bundled blankets.
And as much as the tiredness
enveloped me in its embrace,
the thought of yours implied through
the telephone waves proved
to be worthwhile, nonetheless.
You were miles beyond my reach,
but you were simple words away.

I haven't stayed up this late
since we fell asleep falling in love
in different beds but with the same desires,
on the same line; on the same page.
And I hate to admit it,
but I still like to think of it that way.

- g.d.

I wrote you a letter
about how the sun shone brightest whenever
I caught sight of your smile, and how blue
the sky grew whenever you held my hand.

I wrote it
about the day I fell in love with you
when you did everything right,
so I ended up walking the wrong way home

getting lost in the thoughts of you and
lovestruck
by the potion you probably slipped
into my vanilla coke.

I wrote it
in memory of our first kiss
which triggered fireworks, so hot,
the embers turned into flames,
burning our fingertips but
keeping our lips fused together.

I wrote you a story
about how your laugh made me giggle,
and your touch always soft
as it explored my limbs and
caressed my heart;

how the dimples under your lips
melted me like ice,
or how your scent could bring
angels down from heaven;

I wrote you a chorus
to put into words
how you made me feel
more than human;

how my heart dropped
at the sound of your voice,
and rose again
at the mention of your name.

You see, I wrote you a letter
to tell you how much I loved you,
yet by the time I signed it off With Love,
you no longer loved me in return.

- g.d.

With my whole body I taste these peaches,
I touch them and smell them.  Who speaks?

I absorb them as the Angevine
Absorbs Anjou.  I see them as a lover sees,

As a young lover sees the first buds of spring
And as the black Spaniard plays his guitar.

Who speaks?  But it must be that I,
That animal, that Russian, that exile, for whom

The bells of the chapel pullulate sounds at
Heart.  The peaches are large and round,

Ah! and red; and they have peach fuzz, ah!
They are full of juice and the skin is soft.

They are full of the colors of my village
And of fair weather, summer, dew, peace.

The room is quiet where they are.
The windows are open.  The sunlight fills

The curtains.  Even the drifting of the curtains,
Slight as it is, disturbs me.  I did not know

That such ferocities could tear
One self from another, as these peaches do.

i  don't want  to live in  the
                            s p a c e s
between   your   words,   i
want to be  found in every
syl-
                    la-
                                     ble