Sunday, February 21, 2016

When I tell him I love him

He does this thing, 
the man I want to live for. 
The extraordinary man I want to share 
all my lives with. 
When I tell him I love him. 
When I trust my heart enough to
scream it. 
He walks away.
He walks toward the silence of the mind.
He lives in a place inside himself I'm not allowed into for as long as six months. 
As if six months would change it somehow. 
As if I were sick and just needed time to recover. 
He does this thing,  
the bearer of my dreams. 
He cuts communication. 
In a way I feel guilty for saying it out loud. 
I love you. 
I love you. 
Even knowing love is
the one thing no one should ever be ashamed of.

Tuesday, February 9, 2016

dead language alive

This is again
a language to say.
Back from the dead

without stories
it remains pure;
The tongue

licks old truths
as it would do
to open wounds

just now with an
improved understanding
of the physiology of taste.

Sunday, February 7, 2016

You are standing in a field looking at the stars

I have now renamed
the world around me
after you:
the alarm clock,
the toothbrush,
the stars in the sky at 5:30 a.m.
when I leave for work,
the clouds
(when they are there),
the sunrise,
the empty seat next to mine
on the bus,
the subway stations,
the trains,
every block I have to
walk back from work,
the trees I rush past,
the traffic lights, 
my keys,
the shower,
my own reflection
in the mirror,
the pillows,
the bedroom walls.