lily-yellowed

your flowers left stains in my vase
because i did not care for them properly.

it was never intentional -
absent-mindedness, not cruelty.

now that lily-yellowed crystal
is all i have left of you.

Of Death & Denial

I went to go see you on Monday, the first
You didn't say much; nonetheless, we conversed
My visit was short, but it wasn't the worst
And I can't bring myself to regret it.

I sent you a letter on Wednesday, the third
I haven't heard back from you, still not a word
Is this what you meant when you said you preferred
To live with no strings attached?

It's Friday the twelfth and I called you today
I wanted to talk but had nothing to say
You didn't pick up, and I guess that's okay
It just rang and it rang and it rang.

Expect me tomorrow, some time around three
I'll even dress up for you, wait 'til you see
And I'm bringing flowers, how silly of me
But I like to think you enjoy them.

I can't help but hope that this time, you'll be there
I'll tell you I called, and you won't really care
You'll say that you love me, and I'll make you swear
And you'll smile and pull me in close.

I think it's a Thursday, but can't say for sure
My calendar's lying face down on the floor
The days count themselves now, I can't anymore
Though it's not like I've really been trying.

I came by again today; you weren't there
I waited all night at the foot of your stair
I almost believed it, but I didn't dare
Admit to myself that you're
Gone.

I've stopped writing.

I've stopped writing.
I've stopped banging my head against the wall
and pounding on computer keys late at night
and crumpling ink-filled pages in my fists.

I've stopped because
I can do that
and know that it will be
right here
waiting
when I come back.

Drafts sitting
half-finished
in a folder, or
the clumsy scrawl
of 4 AM and
handwritten notions -
I find them precisely where I left them.

There is no resentment here,
and no impatience.
They do not pester or prod me,
do not beg or plead.
They ask nothing,
they simply
repeat
back to me
the life I nearly gave them.

Sometimes, still unfit to touch,
I tiptoe in,
just to have a peek,
just to make sure I didn't dream it all.
I count their sleeping heads
and listen to them breathe
and know that they are mine
and tiptoe out again,
feeling quite
irresponsible,
and quite proud.

Make no mistake:
When I pick up my pen again -
and I will -
I will pluck up the courage
to ask it to dance, and
after a few cautious steps,
it will be
as if I never left.

Sonnet

There came a moment late last night
I woke as with a sudden fever.
Before these eyes had tasted light,
I swore myself a non-believer.
At once I summoned up the dream
That claimed to know my heart's design,
But in my sight it did not seem
To recognize these oaths of mine.
It vanished ere I looked away,
And no more lingered in my mind;
I begged in vain that it should stay,
For in its absence was I blind.
      Such dreams are spun with borrowed gold
      That no mere man can keep or hold.

Lighting Her Cigarette

She says she's fine, but she can't light her cigarette.
She'll burn craters in her thumb before she gets that flame to hold.

The ghost in her eyes, all riddled with bullet holes,
tattered and smoking where the sparks pierced the veil,
falls unceremoniously and is still.

Her spine rattles, but the fire's in her head.
She flicks the lighter like a nervous tick and curses her hands.

She ought to have swallowed that fuse on her tongue.

The pyre's in her lungs and it's folding her in two,
smoldering on the asphalt where she spits,
shriveling and gulping empty air.

Her shoes are singed and black, her lips speckled with ash.
Trembling fingers cradle a plume of smoke.

She lights her cigarette, and says she's fine.

my tapestry

you left footprints
all over
my tapestry.

it was handmade;
the only one
in the world.

i'm sorry
i left it
on the floor.

if i'd
hung it up
like you said,

maybe
it would still
be beautiful,

and maybe
you would still
be here.

by my fingertips

I hold you by
my fingertips
(but never in my hand);
and if sometimes
my finger slips
I hope you understand.

I keep you in
a paper cup
(with holes poked in the top);
and very seldom
pick you up
for fear that you will drop.

I set you on
a blade of grass
(so you can fly away);
and wonder while
the minutes pass
if I could make you stay.

I close my eyes
and let you leave
(I have to set you free);
but secretly
I still believe
that you'll come back to me.

My Minutes

My minutes - halved and thin and slight -
catch fire in the dead of night.
In an instant: flare, ignite,
forget the awful cost.

My minutes - ever darker, dimmer -
somehow shorter, somehow slimmer,
choke into a smoking simmer,
and suddenly
            are lost.