April #21

She lies in his arms,

defenseless and unclothed,

and prays against the coming dawn.

He is warm and powerful against her,

and she can smell

his special sweat scent

all around her.

Please,

don't let it come,

she begs.

Let us stay in this haven,

this perfect perfection.

But dawn must come,

and so the day.

She must rise out of their nest

and go forth into the world,

and hope with everything she has

that he will still be there when she gets back.

April #7

She worries
sometimes, a lot.
She chews on her nails,
sometimes biting them off.
She tries to make it better,
cuddles up close,
wraps his arms around her.
It doesn't always help.
At times he sleeps
so she can't ask him
those questions -
are you happy?
do you love me?
Those silly questions
that will get annoying
with repetition.
So she waits, and thinks,
and worries and tries to stop it.
But he has given her good memories,
told her good things,
talked about his future
with her
even after this.
If she can just remember that,
how he won't let her wear a ring on that finger,
and how he bought her a flower
that she will love,
and how
sometimes
they talk of houses and babies and what she thinks of as
The Real World,
or Life After,
then she can smile,
and for the moment,
be completely reassured.

April #5

Do you think
are you trying to say
that I'm manipulative?
It seems like you are,
in this conversation which
is like so many others of ours,
where we cannot talk directly
and only
indicate things with
metaphors
what-ifs
pretend statements.
It would be so much simpler,
refreshing, even,
if we could step outside of this web
where you and I are polite,
and just bitch each other out,
if that's what you're looking for.

I don't know.
I might have been manipulative,
but I was in love.
I am in love.
I don't think
I could manipulate truly
someone who I love,
but instead I would stumble in the process,
realize what I was doing,
and stop.
Because I believe in choice,
and I won't be the girl
who wished for love
then spent the rest of her life
wondering if it was real -
or if it was only because of her wish.
Things come at their own pace,
and perhaps
I encourage them.
But
I think
it was not manipulation.
I reminded him of what I was,
what I could be,
and he missed me.

Can it be so very simple?
Or are these more lies?

April #1

for three weeks
she slept
through the rain.

he had to try
to keep her dry

but he ran out of ways.

for three weeks
she hid
from the stars

he had to try
to keep her by

all in a night.

for three weeks
she cried
every day

he had to try
to dry her eyes

had to find out the way.

it's been
three weeks
she wakes up
looks at the sky
opens her heart.

March #15

Walk soft, boy.
Tread lightly.
This is my heart.

You stand on
bruised ground
abused ground.

I can love.
And I can give.
But not to those who can't return.

I need you
to wear soft gloves
and take me out
and be happy
by making me happy.

I need to go back to those days.
I thought we were.
Headed back to the good times.

Maybe
I am lost in those good times
of the past.

There is no time machine.
There is no easy button.
I can try,
and we can try,
and we can make it if we pull hard enough.

Do you know that?

We can.

But will we row our boat,
or, convinced of a leak,
jump?

March #14 (Good News Bears!)

I'm glad for you, boy.
You're growing up.
I have known you through
what may have been
the four most awkward years of your life -
because after all,
high school
is pretty fucking awkward
for all of us.

I remember a few summers ago
when we
stayed up all night running up our text bills
talking to each other
in living warm nights.

You asked me out,
and I
had no interest
but you were graceful
even then
maybe used to it?
and took it well.

Now you forge ahead
again
but this time
with more favorable prospects
and your usual cynical mood
has been blown away to reveal
what you used to be,

the hopeful, happy,
funny, untainted boy
that I value.

Let hope thrive, boy. Let it feed you.

March #11

Portrait, of a girl
paint the colors in
there's no black and white
only shades of gray

portrait, of a girl
who feels only sadness
and love
muddy mixes of hues

portrait, of a girl
who's alone and lonely

portrait, of a girl
who can't help what she feels

portrait, of a girl
who suspects she's being used
by a boy
who she never thought
could hurt her.

portrait, of a girl
an imperfect image
barely representing
what she's going through.

March #6

F irst
E motions
A rise from
R uins of previous loves.

I nstead of mourning
S he will find herself musing

T hen
H ope will burn brightly
E ven though she thinks her heart will break.

H e has to make up his mind
E ven if he decides she's not right
A nd she will live with this somehow
R egretfully
T oo full of love still.

O f course she has no other option
F ate has the final say. She

L oves
O nly the
V ital
E _ _ _.

March #1

I was walking back from class
and you were hurrying towards it
when we spied each other,
imperfect strangers,
and for some reason you crossed the road.
I wasn't sure if it was you at first. But then
we gave each other copies of the same sidelong glance
the one which reveals best the whites of our eyes
and I thought it was you
even though you'd done something strange with your hair.
And then once we were a few yards past
I looked back to see you looking back.
It's funny how things can end.
Now we don't say hello
and I think I may be as hard to recognize
as you are.
Did you ever think it would be this way?

Mini-Story

She's just a girl, walking back home, but as she walks she is plagued by how she watched him beckon to that other girl like a lover, to come in, and simultaneously shut her out. She tries to be angry, and can be, a little. They did leave her alone, after all, to walk back in the dark and in the cold. So she spits at the side of the road and tells the night,

“At least he's taking the right fuckin' steps, at least he's making me mad at him so this will be over sooner.” But then her voice softens, not to the point of tears, but definitely past the border of sadness, and she is quiet, and almost whispers -

“At least he was nice to me, in the car,” she talks to herself, keeping it a secret from that watchful night. And, “At least he seemed to care.”

She walks home in the darkness and the cold under the solemn sky, wrapped in her own thoughts. Under those merciless stars she is alone.