To You, Who I Have Missed

when i miss you i like to listen to records
the records you gave me, the records that remind me of you
and I pour two glasses of wine -
one for me, and one for the absent friend.
as the evening darkens past midnight,
my living room fills up with smoke and music and sighs,
and I wonder why as I miss you.
Sometimes I will turn up the cars
and dance under the canopy of miniature suns,
remembering how I have done so before,
waiting for you.
and sometimes a simple lyric will cut my heart,
as I sit and ponder the universe
and me
and you
and if you were here to watch you would see
the tears like stars glistening,
noiseless under the music.
I will wait,
knowing you are not coming,
imagining that you will anyway,
until my glass is empty,
my cigarettes are gone,
my records have each taken their turn,
and my heart is full and sore
from lyrical pinpricks.
Then and only then I will stand,
and wipe my face,
and go to sleep under the covers
in my cold and empty bed.

So Much, We Give

We give so much of ourselves.
We give to those we love,
and we beg for them to give us back.
We lose parts of ourselves along the way,
so caught up in our giving and taking
we never notice the trades that occur,
and then we give what we have taken
to the third or fourth or fifth
down the line. For we are selfish,
in what we give and what we get -
sometimes it's more we give,
and sometimes it's more we take,
but we never give more than we choose to.
Of course, the utter gift,
the oblivion and loss of self,
is when we give our all, but even
then it is our choice, not curse,
and when eventually we have none left to give
it is ourselves to blame.
We give so much, to friends and foes,
to loves and fairy tales,
but what we give we can earn back,
with interest, if we choose.