Walk With Me


She wants to be who she is.
She wants to feel loved for who she is,
And who she wants to become.
She doesn’t want to feel guilty to feel needed.
She wants to feel beautiful.
She wants to feel strong.
She wants to feel like she belongs.

But if belonging means to solely coexist,
To feel like another piece of the scenery,
Then she doesn’t want to be anywhere remotely near it.

She wants to have romantic love.
A wish on her last days should not be to feel more loved,
But rather to have more days to spend with the one she loves.

Talk to me like I am the reason you breathe.
Talk to me like I am why you rise in the morning.
Talk to me like I am the last thing you want to see before you sleep.
Tell me I’m your everything.

And then show me, prove to me, that there’s no doubt in the world otherwise.
Tell me, because a woman needs to know.
And tell me authentically.
Don’t pour sugar over a salty wound thinking it will heal, only time and tenderness will do.

Train Ride Home

inspired by The Last Night of Your Trip

on the train ride home
your smile flashed between buildings,
lights flickered and i couldn’t tell
if it was the spark in your eye
or the streetlights beaming
onto the dark streets.

i saw your smile and your hand
reaching for mine,
those bedroom eyes
that whispered “bring me
to your hotel.”

we weren’t made for cheap
sex, we were poets
who felt everything down
to our souls.
it wasn’t just one night with another,
it was our lives coming together.

your smile chased me
between the streets.
your breath next to mine
will always be the one thing
that sends me off
to the sweetest dreams.

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.