piling up Tim Horton coffee cups in my garbage

watching videos and crying

for what could have happened

(ridiculous really)

but always at the back of my mind

and then I’m weak in the knees

distracted by phone calls

emails, and streaky make up;

remove all bad poison from lungs

from words

from this hell

in the pouring rain,

where I want to drive straight

to where you’re located

on the gps

on the map

of my internal destruction

creation,

my own Personal Jesus

as I reach out

and touch some kind

of faith for poets

and authors and

nothing can crash again

(not today, at least)

as I smile for Anne,

the reporter who

shares names with my favorite poet

and I think

how there is a sign in all

in you

in me

in the rain

in the stars

in your sweet embrace

and how lovely you smelled to my senses.

(How a la mode a feeling like this can be

classy, and fleeting

or forgotten and healing). 

Love is calling

must run fast.

Do not look back.