Left

The heat. It's no longer joyous. It's just as depressing as a cloud-filled windy day.

The rain. I prefer to stand in it now, look up to the heavens and hope for it to wash clear my mind.

That house. It's just a left over snakeskin. It's hollow. It's out of place.

The streets. They replay an old tune of a happy album that now holds a scratch on the vinyl.

Irony. Flames engulf this area with nothing to put it out. I am left to look at embers with a look of puzzlement.

To drop out of existence. Questions left behind with loose ends. To drop out of existence?

Cache-cache. As the phrase states, no finding. A childish game confirming need of Maslow.

Me. The only thing left that hasn't changed. The only one of us left in open existence.

Signed

You knew what you signed up for

Before the flutter of lashes

before the movies never watched

before falling asleep

before going away

before returning

before an unsaid word

you knew what you signed up for

you knew what you signed up for

as the time progressed

as the words I miss you rolled off both our lips

you knew what you signed up for

I knew what I signed up for

before you made me laugh

as soon as you made me worry

and after you made me cry

I knew what I signed up for

The question is...would I do it again?

....in a perfect world...always...post-it.

Death Treated You Right

you tallied your losses: | | |

my father taught me roman numerals but
he never taught me to estimate weights
(pounds, grams, kilos) and so
i could not estimate the weight of the casket you bore –
I’m sorry.

(i did taste the doubt in your mouth when you leaned over me)

Death treated you right
entered on cue when it fractured early november
made you grateful while i
spun around your tally marks like caskets are weightless –

naïve ballet tights hiding flesh
the offensive grace
of a dancer

...your eyes...

Your eyes...they say it all.

In your eyes I see the shame. I notice the guilt.

Darting everywhere around the room but at our faces.

On display you idly sit. Hands, body, and movement demonstrate the uncomfortable moment of a first step.

In my mind I relate the moment to a puddle that has already experienced the world, water having traveled from cloud, to sky, down the earths carefully carved crust. Above the surface is him. Above: curiosity, wonder, desire, and the openness. Under the surface is you. Under: the hiding, the deception, and the denial. His eyes look into the water as he dips his finger in to test the water that could be cold, warm, contaminated, or perhaps a figment of the imagination.

Your eyes...they cause me pain.

They lock up a story you tried to destroy only like a boomerang to return at your doorstep.

Your eyes show shadows of the life you have lived in avoidance. A life you decided we should never know.

Your eyes...they are selfish. To take away an opportunity to an innocent. So selfish to believe a signature could simply erase it all.

In your eyes is what you "owe". You "owe" this? You owe me nothing...and everything. You owe him understanding. But above all a chance to move on after all this time.

There's him in the gleam of that light. The same dark color. The same searching stare. Deep set and strong.

Pride keeps them from looking into my gaze. By avoiding you maintain your stance.

But above all, the represent a dominance. A dominant trait from you to him.

Your eyes cause the streaming of tears down my cheeks. Your eyes...they have looked at me all my life with every glance in a mirror.

Take Me, I Am Waiting

Drip drip drip goes the faucet that needs fixing. The faucet inside my chest, inside my being, inside my bones, inside my heart.

Tick tick tick goes the clock that’s just too loud. The clock inside my head, inside my nervous system, inside my veins, inside my blood.

What are we waiting for? Sometimes it's for the truth to rise with the sun. Sometimes it's for answers to be brought through the vibrating rings of a phone. At times, it's for an embracing hug of a return. And sometimes it's for the sounds and the world to stop spinning.

Twirl. Paper. Twirl. Death. Spin. Helping others. Turn. Work. Keep going. No sleep. Adrenaline. Mixed emotions. Anxiety. Attack. Lay low. Tense. Let someone cry on your shoulder. Cry on the shoulder of a confidante. Yell. Bite words. Spin. Twirl. Turn.

Stop.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Through this cacophonous storm you stay strong. You hold your head high. Patience for the next event to come. Patience for the unknown.

One day….one day the wait might be worth it. Or the wait may be a waste of energy.

If Ed Hardy says love kills slowly; if the phrase is curiosity kills; if secrets don’t make friends. Take me and try to kill my stance. Take me and avoid me like you already are. Or take me as you said you would steal me away.

Take me as I am because a rock will always wait for the sun to peek over the mountain even if a war rages around it.

Drip drip drip.

Tick

Tick

….tock

The World May Never Know...

What run through a person's cranium when they are acting in an absurd fashion.

Why ties get severed with the same dagger that unfortunately brought the fall to Juliet herself.

And why celery tastes good with peanut butter??

Why everyday contains reminders.

Why the good die young.

Why at certain moments the best answer is 'because'.

Whether your implanted replacement is sweet and just that amazing or if they're only just good enough to you for the now.

How you could walk down life's road thinking you could never turn around and find where you originated only to receive a certificate that shines a light behind you bringing shadows to the space in your forward much like the allegory of the cave.

Why sprinklers are always fun to get caught in.

That a person could be absently in your life before you meet them personally. That there could be a harmonious connection like you knew them your whole life. And how little of time it could take to love them.

That the prospect of meeting new family could make your world spin.

How many licks to get to the center of a tootsee pop.

How a piece of paper could wrap you in a cacoon of transformation in life.

This is not an invented ending.

As I left in December, I called that ending invented. I cleaned, packed, swept, listened to Michael Bublé when I should have listened to someone melancholy. I was leaving, you were leaving, but we were not really leaving. The year was ending, but the year was not really ending. In any case, you found me before the end end. You chided me gently for not saying goodbye. You had noticed that acidity, too.

This ending - this ending is not invented. Sitting quietly, straddling the end of April and the beginning of May, my wakefulness smearing the thin lines of calendars designating invented endings. Blue pen ink marks separating 2009 from 2010, April 30th from May 1st. This is not the end of a year, not the end of a season. Still, can you taste the acidity?

You're leaving and you're not coming back. You are this place. You are waiting around every corner - long, fast strides, ambitious strides, like mine. I will not be able to tell you to relax. I will not be able to remind you of how delicious the day is. I don't know how to be here knowing you are not here. Will I double-take, catch my breath, see your smile in the cream cotton dress you loved and in frozen yogurt and in cake mixes and in poker games? You are this place.

This time, the acidity comes in everything: orange juice, midnight popcorn, Aquafina water. I feel it in my throat and in my esophagus. Still you say nothing.

This ending is not an invented ending, but this ending is a forced ending. Abrupt slash here's your change. In three years, perhaps, you will not even remember me. Will you leave this place, finally, when I leave? Will that be the end?