itching.

I itch.

it’s a twitch
I dare not scratch-
for that way lies
loneliness.

there was a time
my soul would
e  c  h  o
like an empty suitcase,
the open road.
Behold:

Connection, Affection
are far too tempting

and suddenly
I see
Life
unfolding the way all those
Coming-of-Age novels
warned us about
[with disdain,]
the refrain

repeating
 
over and over
again and again
before my eyes.

to my surprise,
I understand.

and yet, the grand
vastness of infinity
calls to me still

How to stand it?
remember:

Life is for Living
and when I arrive at my death,
out of breath
and late as usual,
and my soul finally
s.c.r.a.t.c.h.e.s. its way free
of this confining body,

I will           race
to that glimmer
at the edge of forever
and              embrace
the impossible echoes
of eternity

To The One Who Loved Me More

To The One Who Loved Me More:
I am truly sorry for
The pain I put you through-
But, my dear, I knew
It was cruel to pretend.
And so I brought the end
Of you and me,
But I paid dearly
For the pain I brought you.
Because then I fell into…

The One Who Loved Me Less-
Who, I confess
R i p p e d    me right apart,
Properly abused my heart.
Thought love was a fun play
Until the curtain fell away-
And it all became much too real,
So he shut off how to feel
And no one ever knew
The loneliness he put me through.

But, to More and Less:
I wish you the best,
I hope that life is kind
And that one day you both find
The One You Love the Same-
It is an exit to the game.
Joy comes with loving equally,
I have finally come to see
And found myself, and so I pray
You will find your Same someday
It is an end you both have earned:
To be loved the way that your love burned

cuts.

most people are
papercuts-
barely scratching the surface,

a quick and fleeting
s.t.i.n.g. that
hardly serves a purpose.

but [you] are the slice
that cuts so deep
it takes years just to scar,
throbbing until
I grow   n u m b
to the pains.

yes, you are the wound
that, in time, is fine
on most days,
but still aches
deep in my bones
when      it        rains.

stardust.

I knew
we two
to be heavenly bodies-
beings of  f.i.r.e.,
posed to inspire
awe,
to offer light
in the night
as stars.

I knew
you
to be the sun
sharing  h.e.a.t.,
making life sweet
for me,
and it burned
when I learned
what you are.

I know
now, the glow
is brightest
just before i.m.p.l.o.s.i.o.n.,
just before      e x p l o s i o n
just before the  [black hole]
destroys its neighbors
and labors
to leave the sky in scars.

addicted. 

Hi, my name is ____
and I’m      addicted
to days gone by.

the high:
memories, photographs
and the laughs
from the past-

I got hooked
on the good times
by living them,

jonesing for the
old days when
we were all just
existing together,

missing the ones
we lost
along the way,

getting through
the withdrawals on
“remember whens”
and “should’ve beens”

wishing [Thursday]
wasn’t the only
throwback
we’re allowed

inventory.

here I sit,
taking inventory of

THE WALLET:
thirty-six dollars,
a card that gives me license
to drink and to drive
(but not together),
another that gives me credit,
pictures of her,
and tickets to a show
that won’t go on.

THE HEAD:
countless passwords,
a bachelor’s degree-worth
of knowledge I rarely use,
friends’ birthdays,
how to drive a car,
and memories of what
life used to be.

THE HEART:
the most beautiful little girl,
the kind of friends
you only hear about,
a family that dulls others
by comparison-

and a stubborn refusal to give up
on the idea that
love
will always win.

to the ones who stick.

here’s to the ones
who stick:

who trick
the odds and statistics

and decide not to quit-
the ones that know when you hit

gold- in friends, in love, in family-
you don’t just ‘wait and see’

what happens. you choose
not to use

people to your advantage, instead
you commit your head

and heart to being there,
no matter where

you’re needed. you answer the call,
you break down the wall

if you have to. the ones you never doubt-
they’re what life’s about

and they deserve your best, your most.
so here’s a toast:

I raise my glass to the profound-
to the ones who stick around.

unscripted.

the actor, he’ll go on
with the con:
saying the lines he knows
they want to hear- he shows
up when, conveniently,
there’s an audience to see
just how “spectacular”
his character is, the actor,
he’ll play the grateful, repentant sinner
and critics will think he’s a winner…

and the stagehand will remain
behind the scenes, where it’s plain
that the real work is done-
away from the spotlights and sun
where no one sees the sweat and sorrow
she’ll still be there tomorrow
and instead of playing the part,
she’ll live it and love it and her heart
although in hiding will be lifted,
and triumph, unscripted.