Coffee Shop poems

I imagine myself

dying of some

disease. A morbid thought,

I know. I tell my children,

one day I will be dust.

I think I can fly. They nod

their heads and laugh.

I stare at the birds hoping one day

I will reincarnate into one and migrate,

take flight. I want to leave this city

in the heavy winter and fly south. Meet

the other nomads and talk about

our body heat. I want to see him

naked, knocking him down

with his knack for knowledge

about my imperfections. I want

him to look past the words and

battery chargers, the truth, the

half-made up lies, the quick

good-byes. It is all a bunch of

fucking crap. I smile, falling into

his trap. I am the best actress you

have seen off-screen. The theater

is in my mind. The mirror is off

the wall in between the hooks

and family portraits you barely find. I want

every poem to be the worst one.

I wish the next one,

to shake his world, make him

think about why he leaves me

every day, why I expect every man

to be him. I want him to continue

hating everything he loved

about me. The way he saw the sea

through me, the crashing waves,

the all night raves. The days

pass slow, he wrote me in a letter,

you make think I have forgotten

all the masks you wore, but

I went to Venice too, I saw how you

were everywhere, in the art you can explore,

the pleated skirts, the Murano glass

in spurts. I have not thought about you,

I will not think about you, no matter

how many times you want me to.

I want to be you and you want to be

me. When I write a poem that

makes me physically sick, the kind

of poem you would share with no one

the kind, that even

your lover couldn’t handle.

The coffee shop is too crowded.

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