You’re So Sentimental

*spoken word*

he says as it relates
to a date
of another first
we’ve had.

It reminds me of things
I shouldn’t hold onto.

It shouldn’t matter
when I first noticed
the way light hits his beard,
or how his colors blend
as in a Monet,
only that I see them.

It shouldn’t matter
when those butterflies first flew
from our insides;
only that they fly every time.

It shouldn’t matter
the date of our birthdays;
every day we exist
should be celebrated.
Our presence is a gift.

Yet I die a little every time
when it doesn’t matter.
Details matter.
And I love all of our details.

Memories serve as my card catalog
to pull out certain pages of our story
at any point in time.
The who, what, when, where, and how;
all those details matter.

If you want to know the song that played
as we kissed on Christmas Eve,
I’ve got it.
If you want the song that played
as we made love in my college apartment,
I know that one, too.
For when I hear those songs again, I set myself
into that space, that moment, that Autumn afternoon
as the sun set and we slipped quickly into the night.

I have them all stored and ready to play,
just say the word.

It Can Be Wonderful and Terrible, But It Always Tickles the Right Spot

The way grey hits the wooly fibers across his chin,
like individual spikes of a wheel
poking in multiple directions,
with fusing colors like a Monet.

I graze my fingers through the fibers
like walking through cornfields
with long, mysterious paths that
lead to depths I long to uncover.

He rests his hand upon his cheek,
pondering his next move
then stroking back and forth the ebony & ivory,
like the piano keys he gently plays for me.

The tune of his melody, deep and sweet,
intrudes my darkness, brushes away
the sagging of years upon my back,
and aligns our eyes to meet.

Speak for the Trees

Photo by Guillaume Meurice on

tears fall from the tips of leaves,
no longer heaving but finally at peace,
no longer a place for relief,
no longer bending to the constant breeze,
no longer kept afloat meandering rivers,
no longer subject to raging fires,
no longer a victim to defeat.

tides no longer pulling at the heart,
stars no longer hovering above,
no longer tormented to be part of the world
that casts itself forcibly upon a need for an anchor,
as the only surviving hope.

life no longer to be cradled within these branches,
the forest now lives inside the heart
of everything we once knew.

Fallen Pieces

An accelerated pull, or a pushing forward, disregarding the existence of brakes.
A collapse into fallen leaves and twigs.
A slow pluck of fallen pieces.
Looking up into the sway of the trees, between a glimmer of light.
Dodging, swerving away from becoming a future target.
Do I rise and escape these fallen pieces?
Or do I bask in the moment and let them consume me?

A bump in the night

the voice comes to me
as a phantom in a dream.

as i write
the voice channels
from him to me.

laughter vanishes
to staring at the sea,
to the house
that no longer carries
his childhood dreams.

vacanies searching for occupation
from passing through stations
to platforms holding onto memories,
all of it comes to me.

in my internal screenplay,
is he the playwright
or the main lead?

the nature of it,
all of my opposites:
bruting arrogance
or brilliant confidence.

is my empathy a curse
or is this a curated character chiseled in verse?

Sheltered In Place

they will never know the stillness,
the silence, as the world hushes
when the first snowflakes drop out of the sky.

they will never feel the crisp air
or see white blanket the fields
as it does every year.

kept indoors,
safe and warm,
where humidity breathes,
where mist showers from above,
and crawling critters burrow,
where life continues.

under wraps to avoid
a deep freeze,
never a first blossom of the year
but life sustains
again, and again.

among rows of green
as infants in a nursery,
this is the only place
sprouts now grow.

under a careful eye
we’re both determined
to stay alive.

nous avons tout le temps pour nous

The summer’s ritual of an evening rain gushes down upon my large umbrella. I quickly step to dodge flooding puddles surrounding me. And that’s exactly what I’ve been doing most of my life, avoiding disasters. But the person awaiting my arrival, he is my safe haven. Everything leading up to this moment, although it may have been disastrous at times, is exactly how it should have been. I pull to close the umbrella, brush a few raindrops from my face, take a deep sigh, and pull open the door to the coffee shop where we’ve arranged to meet. He stands to greet me. My nerves are shot, and I can’t for the life of me know where to begin. I squeeze out a nervous smile. We’ve already reconnected for the past year but, this is the first time I get to see him again and I’m uneasy. Do I start from step one, see where this goes? Do I immediately pull into the throes of a lover’s embrace? So many questions racing for an answer. I want to turn off the questions in my mind, sit here and stare at him for a while. Order a coffee & tea, and say something, anything to believe that this was all meant to be. I want him to teach me a few phrases I have yet to learn and do all the things we have left to do. And I know we will. We have the time. We have all the time. We have all the time for us.

Thanks for reading. This is an edited repost from August 2020.