There are moments when the world spins slow;
My eyes droop, as if to lead my head,
And the most involving things
Seem distant instead.
I’m here, but I’m not
For part of me is removed.
Where it is, in time or in space,
I can’t begin to tell you.
Perhaps part of me leaves
To some intangible land.
My spirit learns what it needs,
Then returns to its host, the man.
Or perhaps, the mind can’t help but take a rest
Not afforded by dream or reverie.
So it escapes the world and its mess
To a nothingness far more clean.
Or, it could be for no reason at all
That I seem to lose half of my soul.
All I gain from it
Is appreciation of when I am whole.

There was a spotlight on her that night,
Submerging her in a glow that demanded attention.
All else faded to background scenery,
As she performed her unconscious solo piece.
No one had bought tickets,
But they all took their place in the seats,
And waited on baited breath
For what masterpiece she might conceive.

There must have been an orchestra too,
For my heart thrummed harmonies to her every move,
And every voice which spoke
Seemed to be the overture to the entrance of her own.

She conducted herself effortlessly
Composed, with depths hidden just enough
To make all in attendance
Burn to learn the lyrics to her subtle smile.

And when she exited stage right on time,
There was too much awe for ovation.
For no hand among them
Could conceive to thank her with naught but a clap.

But one such hand found solace enough
After such a haunting act.
My own,
Squeezed tightly around hers
As she closed the stage door shut.

Sometimes, there’s water so still and clear that you can see the reflection of everyone else in it.
And they’re happy and they’re sad
And they’re loved and they’re miserable.
And they don’t know you’re seeing them so they do all the little things that people do when they’re alone.
Like wrinkle the nose
And nibble their tongue
And look around
And close their eyes
And wish they were better.
Or different.
Or the same as they were.
They only do that when they’re alone or when they’re a reflection in still water.
And they think it’s only them.
But it not.
They can’t hear me
Shouting that it’s all of us,
Because the sound doesn’t travel far enough through the water to reach them.
So I just watch.
And wish I was better.
Or different.
Or the same as I was.
Until something stirs the water
And I’m gone.

Lips find lips,
Eyes close.
For a kiss unseen
Is sweeter, she knows.

Bodies lock,
Fully intertwined.
Like the last puzzle piece
You hoped to find.

But this spark was
Far less expected.
And for that, leaves me
So much more affected.

There is a chemistry
That reacts with contact,
Somehow unbeknownst to me,
But now, volatile fact.

Breathe out, together,
Scarcely breathing in
Before returning to that small
Paradise where we've been.

There is no world there,
No one else exists.
We've made our own universe
Inside a stolen kiss.

Waves of wrinkled fabric between me and her might as well be a vast ocean,
Storms of worn fluorescent light from a cracked bathroom door
Echo cracks or thunder that sounds like tears trying to be quiet in vain,
Across that depth, she’s the kind of calm that only comes in the deep center of the torrent, with the world coming apart around it,
I could sail to her, with a hand, with a word, and I might not be bashed against the cliff face,
But then I would have to face her, and acknowledge that no body can be that forcibly still without being torn apart by blunt force winds,
And the true cause might not simply be hot and cold winds from her,
But currents that run just deep enough between us to still be passable if someone, anyone, were strong enough to brave them.

When dinosaurs walked the land,
Africa and the Americas
Fit together like it was planned.
And, still, to this day,
It seems like you can tell,
They were built for each other,
They fit so well.

I think that’s a bit like you and me,
Though I’m not sure if there’s destiny.
Cause our fingers entwine,
And I hold your body next to mine,
It seems to me like we were perfectly aligned.
Like some tectonic force
Separated us long ago.
Only to unite, here,
For reasons we’ll never know.

But now I wonder,
Seeing how lonesome the lands seem
To be separated by such an impassible sea:
Whether we’ve already crossed ours,
Or whether an Atlantic Ocean
Still lies in the future
For you and me.

A teddy bear hugs the dirt
Next to a dozen roses bouquetted in grass.
This is not the fate intended
By those who left these tokens of grace.
But the wind and the rain owe no mercy
To lonely headstones and their favors.
And gifts given soon whither and die
So true to their recipients they are.
Stone holds the more steady service,
Stands it's constant post,
Taking no heed of how many letters are read
Or how many tears join night sprinklers.
Choosing instead to hold vigil
Far past when the last teddy bear is left.

I'm the man women write poems about.
No, not the love poems.
Not the ones with a tear and a smile.
There're no daisies, or roses.
No dances in the moonlight
I'm not the Mr. Right,
And we never have the perfect love.

I'm also not the bad boy
That they knew was wrong.
The smile and the wink
That lead them to what they think
Was the greatest year of their life.
And the worst.
I'm not nearly that exciting,
Or simple.

That just leaves one more
That women rhyme about.
The one that seemed perfect,
The one who they thought
THEY would break.
The one that tricked them.

The one who fixed them,
For a time.
And got them to believe in something,
Again.
But that's just the beginning of the poem,
Prior to en media res.
The rest
Is about how they were SO wrong.

Somewhere I become the villain
Because I held their hand
Then let go.
It's not something I intend.
Just what continually seems
To happen.
I emerge unscathed.
THEY don't emerge.

Or if they do,
It's not the same.
Those poems are about being wrecked
By the guy they thought cared.
The guy they thought would stay.
The guy that came so close
And then just drifted away.

But the tragedy, for me,
Is that I believe
All of those things too.
I DO care.
I AM the right guy.
I guess the best way to fool someone
Is to fool yourself first.

When they say it was her fault,
They mean it like when you lock your keys in the car,
Or when you sleep through an important meeting,
Or when you forget the birthday of someone close.
Like a simple mistake of HERS could somehow explain what HE did.

They say it like they can understand it,
But she should have known better.
She should have checked her pockets for the keys, and set another alarm, checked the calendar one more time.
Like maybe then she wouldn’t have been there, maybe then she wouldn’t have seemed like she wanted it, maybe then he would have stopped.

But they, those people who NEVER lock their keys in the car, or sleep through an alarm,
They’ve never been on the other end of the phone.
You don’t need to see the tears
Because you can all but hear them strike the ground,
And you don’t need to see her face
Because no Greek chorus could ever portray fear the way breathless sobs do.
They’ve never had to say “It’s going to be okay”
Knowing full well it won’t.
That it may never be.
And they’ve never felt the type of hatred
That only comes from one thing:
Knowing, somehow, deep in your heart
That you would **** to stop this
From ever happening again.
Die, if it meant
That it wouldn’t have happened to her.

They sit back and blame,
Like they’re too afraid
Of what it would mean if it wasn’t
Some flaw in her that caused this,
But a flaw in him,
Maybe a flaw in themselves.

But if they knew what it was like
To be holding her
In arms that can’t possibly
Say safety enough
To make her believe it, again,
Wanting her world to be beautiful,
Like it was before.
Searching for words
Something, anything, to say.
Finding nothing.
If they knew what that silence was like,
They’d be silent now.

It's hard to know what's real
When the stakes for false are so high
When we feel that one wrong move
May cost us precious time.

But what we cannot know
Should be the least of our fears
What we cannot do
Cannot be the cause of our tears.

We are stronger when we must wait
Than we ever are rushing ahead
And if the grass isn't green today,
We'll hope for tomorrow instead.

She said the words.
*******, why?
Until that point we were
Doing just fine.
But she said those three words,
With a look in her eye
That showed me that
This was no lie.

Now we aren’t fine.
She crossed a line
I didn’t even know was there.
There was no sign stating “Beware,”
So how could I judge her forgoing there.
I guess for me,
It’s just so rare
That I feel that I actually care
Enough to share
Those three words,
That I just heard.

Now, I’ll admit I’m scared.
What if I don’t agree
And not just for the time being.
What if it’s just not in me?
I know that’s her fear.
That I’ll never repeat it back
That she’ll never get to hear
These words, for there is something I lack,
Some emptiness inside,
Some surplus of pride,
Some instinct to run and hide.

Maybe she’ll run first
To avoid the worst
So my heart has no chance
To break hers.

I hope that she won’t
I hope she hopes
There’s love enough for us both
In her
At least until I’m ready
To take my turn
Until I learn
To love in return.

I hope she won’t hide
Because I don’t know how hard I’ll seek
But I know that those three words
Were good for me.

Why?
Not because I’m that great of a guy.
But because as far as girls go,
She’s one of a kind.

At her touch
Electric in fingertips once numb
Shivers up and down a rigid spine
Warmth like a stiff drink in my chest
Energy almost dizzying in my head
Power flowing though every muscle
Desire in breaths between lips
Life in eyes suddenly bright

There are many things to make a tourniquet out of.
A plastic bag isn’t the best.
But when she’s crying on the phone
Saying you need to come
And the traffic lights seem to hold you back
And the elevator has never been so slow
And you say a silent prayer that that door is unlocked
So that when you finally get there
You don’t have to try to break it down.
And then she’s there, on the ground
And you don’t want to step in the blood.
It shouldn’t matter,
But you don’t want to step in it.

A plastic bag is close
And when you tie it around a spoon
You can get it tight around an arm.
You aren’t sure how tight it should be
You aren’t sure about anything.
There must have been a door
And an elevator
And stoplights
You’re trying to recall them
When you pull up to the wrong entrance,
The one that’s supposed to be for the ambulance
You don’t leave until they take her.
Then you can pull away to park
In some 2 hour zone,
For as long as it takes her.
The run back over sheets of ice
Feels like running into the abyss
You aren’t sure if you did the right thing
You aren’t sure how bad it is.

The plastic bag is in the trash.
She’s lying on a hospital bed,
Crisscrossed black lines
A new design on her arm,
Like a tattoo you have removed
In 5-7 days.
She says it’s your fault.
You did this.
You ruined this.
You didn’t save this.
Maybe she’s right.
You try not to step on her words
Because she needs to say them,
But you can’t really hear,
Because the idea of what could have happened
Is still ringing in your ears.
The sound of What If
So much louder than shouts.
So much crueler than blame.
But What If isn’t What Is.
And nothing else is important.
Nothing really matters,
Except for a hospital bed, three lines of sutures, and a plastic bag.

Things searched for but unfound
Are the things that carry the significance.
It is not the losing that wrecks us
But the moment when we stop looking
And accept that something is gone.

There are few things so certain as uncertainty,
Or so perilous as truth.

Darlings of philosophy have fallen
Effortlessly into darkness,
Failing to find an argument
In favor of the absolute,
Not knowing that their fault lay in
Even seeking it in the first place.

If only more were to quit
Searching for answers,

They might find that it is
Only the question which is worthwhile.

Life does not exist to be known,
It exists to be created,
Made through the living of it,
Infinite, if only we have the courage
To will more than to wonder.

She said I was warm
Like some sort of compliment
Something I should be proud of
Because it could make someone like her
Less cold
And I smiled
Like I was proud
Like my heat was waiting
For someone like her
To need it

My mom asks me what I'm studying,
And I say The heart.
Her interests peaks,
Because she's always seen
The body as a work of art.
She wants to know more,
So I give her the brief about pumps,
What makes it faster or slower,
But I don't want to talk about this,
In truth, I haven't told my parents much since I started to go here.

We've studied anatomy,
And how bleeding works,
Biochemistry,
And why swollen red skin
Seems to always hurt.
But the more I've taken in,
The less I've given out.
As if being an expert for only you
Is what becoming a doctor is all about.

I tell my friends my grades are good,
Though I definitely study less than I could.
And after saying school is fine,
I skip to some other line
Of thought,
Like I suddenly don't have the time
To include my friends in this new life
Of mine.
It's not that they wouldn't understand,
Because these pals are smart as hell
And it's not that they wouldn't want
More details than "I'm doing well."
And it's not that to learn,
You have to forget,
About the people who matter,
Who got you where you needed to get.

It's that this world is skull-crushingly,
Mind-numbingly full
And at the end of the day,
Escape seems the goal.
But creating two worlds
Makes it easy to leave one behind.
And I wouldn't want to lose the rhythm
Of my values
Just to learn more medical rhymes.

So I need to work harder
To tell my mom about the heart.
To make these two lives
A little less apart.
How there're really two pumps,
No, really there're four,
And in some people's hearts,
You can hear a dull roar
Of a valve slamming shut
Or opening at the wrong time.
And if you've got pulses in your feet,
You're doing just fine.
To tell my friends the truth,
Instead of sloughing it off,
That asthma and emphysema
May have a similar cough.
Or that there are really two systems
That your body uses to clot.
And platelets aren't the only
Thing that you got.

To become a good doctor,
I have to become a good man.
And I thought until now
That was a simple enough plan.
But it might not just be about
Good bedside manner and empathy.
It might be more about how I treat
Those important to me.
If I can give everyone Zach
Without a dodge or excuse,
I'll become a doctor in training,
AND a doctor in truth.

Her hands felt like waves
The way they seemed to tumble on endlessly
Wrinkles were like tide and wake
This was what he called beauty.

He used to run and jump and climb
To keep her gaze
Write verses and sonnets and rhymes
About her unblemished face.

His walk was now slow
And her eyes and cheeks showed
Countless travelled miles
So many years of smiles.
Made his heart run and jump
And write verses and sonnets
In the language of Love.

I hope you remember me as your favorite hour of your favorite season.

Maybe it's dawn of a spring day, the new morning light glistening through dew drops on green grass springing forth and flowers just beginning to bud.

Maybe it's a fall evening, a slight breeze arousing fresh fallen leaves, choreographing a dance that is at once bursting with life and also a solemn epitaph.

Maybe it's a winter day, soft snow brighter it seems than the sun itself, falling slowly and covering the world in a soft embrace, both cautious and beautiful.

Maybe it's a summer night, stars patiently emerging one by one through a clear sky, whispering of the humble vastness of all that is.

Do not let me be a face or a name, but a feeling, returning to you once again, each year.