It does not matter who forgets who

or who lives in the past.  The moment

is all we have, switching gears to

satisfy our needs. I left my heart in

the parking lot, it happened so quickly

did not even know I was going to quit you.

I meant for us to last like that movie

twenty years of longing and never having.

I meant for us to be together in my head

not in real life. It can never be, so why

risk my sanity? I spent so many days

in the hospital, I know one day I will

ask for help. I hope you answer my call.

I hope when you see my name on your

phone, you won’t get scared of the truth.

I have these knots in my stomach

my heart, sometimes I can’t even orgasm

because I’m blocked, stuffed up on life

bleeding sinus pills. I wipe your scent

off of me, when all I want to do is inhale it.

You want someone else

I can never be her

I have known no one but you

and this is what heartache tastes like

at nine fifteen in the morning,

I have to run

to another life

but one last hug

you forgot my present again

and I am coming to believe

I am the only one who gives

again and again.

This is what I am made of

a lifetime of silence

spurting forth words

for you to read.

Valentine’s essay

When I gave you my red beating heart, I didn’t take it back. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I’m giving love lessons to young minds and making them watch Barbara Streisand and Love Story clips along with other Disney characters in romantic love scenes. Breeding young minds more about love than boxes of chocolates and flowers. What is love? Who do you love the most and why? And the reasons that a five year old gives as opposed to us is not the same at all. So simple to love and so lovely to be so simple. I wanted to write a poem, but I’m out of rhymes and free verse for the moment. There is a hole in my heart, so opted for an essay. I was always good at those. In prose form, I will tell you, my imaginary lover and friend, how I love…deeply, madly, without restraints, with my heart, my soul and truly my mind. Once you get my mind, the complexities of it, the rare forgiveness and spiritual birds it hears, then perhaps you can comprehend my misplaced anger. It can stem from love because it all stems from there. I was loved, ’tis true. I was adored, ’tis true. None of that matters though, because, when someone has the gift of seeing and writing what others are not able to, you feel alone and trapped within your own mind. NO matter how ‘normal’ it all appears to be, inside there is a volcano. A dormant one, like Mont Royal, waiting to erupt. As for love and Valentines’ s, I look at my co-worker and we’re practically in tears, over romance, love scenes, nostalgia, memories and we break into a silly laugh. It’s funny how love simply connects us all.

Your version

I think your version is my favorite love poem I’ve read. I think you captured the moment far better than I ever could. I let my tears show me the way, but then the song Take Me To Church plays and I get trapped in my mind. I want to give you all of me on a silver tray and ask you to be gentle and tear away at me. I think you are a true gent from a time long gone and a lost generation. It’s not in the way you held my jacket, or the way your eyes slid up and down my body, but the way you held it in that drew me in. I can’t do justice to any of it through a poem, or a story, but I will try. I think that attraction exists to pour out the demons to one another; the dark, the light, the in-between blurry parts. I could be playful, silly, spontaneous, strong, and

you may think you have me pegged me, and that’s when

you haven’t

but it’s weird how every day I wake up and I could feel differently, except not really for you.

I sleep and wake to you.

I turn the sheets inside out for you.

I think you can meet me half/way or all/the/way or no/way; I think you have me confused with someone else, someone who you’ve met, but mostly I think you’re just as shocked as I am that we are actually kind of normal in a place where that rarely exists.


I was in and out of myself
last night
having out of body experiences
with all my selves.
(How do you write all this stuff early in the morning, Tina asks)
(You’re inspiring,
Addy tells me at dinner)
but all I can tell you
is when the words hit
they knock even me down
leaving me breathless
in that state between reality and dream.
That place
between me and you,
as the words poured out
a bit at a time, like my Cosmo,
until the dream I had
went something like this:
we sat next to each other
and it was pure
and real
glimpses of each other
as you let my smile
affect yours
and my innocence
replace yours.
I could share more about
this dream
but my soul
will only allow me to see
parts of it,
others it has blocked out
to make me believe
that dreams are tangible,
reality obscure
my mind is working
in dualities
in Wilde time
in Nin moments
in no shades at all.

In lost rhymes,
we found it,
in that dream
that had me tossing the words
at your shore
under the midnight moon;
that had me turning the sheets
into swords
under the dark grey sky.
It’s just words, in the end,
in the morning, in the evening;
but how these words
can take over the dream
and wake me up
in this desire
to make it all real.
How words
can create
or destroy
or empower.
I’m the first
of my kind,
as you are
of yours.
You may not know that now,
but one day you
will understand
I am older
and wiser
and every year counts
in every lifetime,
but, alas,
the lifetime that matters most
is this one
and this dream.
I knew that all along.