Freedom

I wrote it on the beach

while staring at the ocean

but forgot to send it

deleted it somehow

and poetry faded into

the sand under my feet.

I hear what you say

but I’m nodding at the sky

it’s talking to me

so be silent.

listen. i told you to

stare and you did,

listening to the wind

and how the earth moved

with the clouds.

You breathe deeply.

she was the one

who never got

away from your thoughts

and she was the one

that reminded you

of me. no spells

required. it was

word play. tricks

that poets perform

on cue. i trust no one

but my lover

who knows every

mole on my skin.

every beach is different

yet the same,

and every man is you

and every woman

is me.

That freedom of

saying you’re mine

or I’m yours

or other lovely phrases

that confuse the horizon

are Purolator express

packages of signed poems

I sent to Pakistan, London,

Lebanon, and other exotic

places that poets meet.

Remember how we ruled

the scene with teased hair

and duMaurier cigs

no line ups, no hash tags,

no texts, no pictures?

You just wanted to

get next to me.

That was all

that mattered.

Now everything matters.

My shoes, my hair,

my fake promises.

Yet you see nothing

but what you

have always seen

and that is one

of the myriad ways

that I love you

in every song.

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