The summer sun is warm
and fragrant on my skin
and I'm the happiest I've ever been
right before the first time
you leave me.

The second time,
the cold is sharp and ruthless
and tastes like emptiness
and I saw it coming
days, maybe weeks in advance.

Neither time is better than the other,
but then again,
neither one is worse,
like comparing death by fire
to death by falling from a height;
death is death
and the time to dwell on it
is the true meaning of hell.

There won't be a third time.

I say this every time
our song comes on the radio
or
I see your favorite flower
or
someone happens to wear
your fragrance of choice.

What are the odds, d'you think?
If I tattoo it on my wrist
THERE WON'T BE A THIRD TIME
and I write it on every flat surface I own
THERE
WILL
NOT
BE
A
THIRD
TIME
which is more likely:
you kiss me and I push you away
or
a piano falls on my head?

I'm hoping for a piano, honestly.

At least then I can imagine
the last time you leave me
is at my wake
and this time
this time
you cry.

I opened the cage
of my ribs for you,
To reveal my softly beating
heart and all that lay
within it.

But you? No.

Your heart is still encased
in that cage of yours.
I can hear it,
each beat reverberating
in your chest.
Yet, I cannot see it.

Maybe you're just shy,
Or
Maybe I just don't hold
the key to the cage
around your heart.

I

This is for you.
This is for me.
This is for the present and for the future I might have seen and for the future that might be and for the future that will be.

This is for you.
This is for me.
This is for the us that might be and for the us that will be and for the us that might never be.

This is for you.
This is for me.
This is a promise.
This is a dream.

This is a memory
Remembered five years too early,
Seen seven years too soon.

This is for me,
For the hearts I guard and for the promises I claim and for the faith that will not waver.
For the days I remember and the days I don’t remember and the days I hate to remember.
For the nights I’m up and wondering and the nights I’m up and screaming and the nights I’m out and dreaming.
For the times I lose my focus and the times I lose my strength and the times I lose my center.

If this is for you,
and one day we might be and will be,
and one day you might be and will be
standing here with me,
please wait with me.

It might be and will be and might never be.
So please wait with me.

Still I will hold on to the One I know who was
and is and will be and will forever be.
This is for me.

II

This is a story
pursued five years too early,
forced seven years too soon.

This is written
with divine hands and not mine,
without the constraints of my human mind.

This is His dream,
not a dead scientist's
ramblings on what it is and what will be and what might be and what might never be.
We are but madmen,
ranting and raving and crying
and losing our voices to the wind.

This is His story,
not yours, not mine.
This is His call,
not yours, not mine.

Should we end up on the same page,
molded with the same ink,
and finally be,
then we will think of the title together:
             a phrase,
             a word,
             in essence:
                   He was and is and will be.

 But we are on different books,
 led to different lines,
 caught up in our own whirlwinds of words.

The rest remains unwritten.

And so I wait.