Curl over to me, deep breath of what is waiting.
Sly sinking between expectations and formality.
This game we play, back and forth and always forward,
scratches at the worlds low intent.

Between fingers, high velocity, skin on skin,
a kind sense of ownership.
Side glances, quick steps,
heart speeding, flurried short words.
I want your answer.

The night closes for business
as we stand eye to eye.
The rest just stops briefly,
extending us to this moment.

Soft light on a timid stretch of seconds,
Awkward but seasoned,
I dreamt of you.

Between folds, you miss that next to you, that feeling of partness.
Shabby imitations of connection, of warm residence.
In a loud place, when you lean in, eyes mirrored
just listen to the hearts soft lullaby.
Tighter, can't be closer, breaths pacing,
sleep takes over before we let go.
Same pillow, same shirt, same couch, same cup, same spoon, same sink, same beer, same heart.
can this be.
So is half missing or waiting?

Come a little closer,
stretch that chance to see the possibility;
that it might fit just right.
Through haze of days it seems so dim.
How could it work with so much that doesn't?
quenching of bottom
slitting of bubbled tension
the cover slips off the trick and reveals
the plain truth of it.
Tasteless and filling.
You love Fridays because the cut you loose
and hate Mondays because the reel you in.
Disconnect and see what pulls you this way and that
with the frivolous tide.
Take only what you can carry and join me
to tomorrow

I had half dried tears in my eyes, tiredly creeping down my face exhausted. I pushed them away for company, for the promise of forgetting... I dressed tight and nice, with a hint of green as traditionally acceptable. I picked him up and we drove the hour to Carson City. I made him laugh and he thougth about holding my hand and my face. He wondered if we would ever be naked together as we ate buffalo wing flavored dorritos. Sitting in the stands I felt odd that all the other players girlfriends probably thought that I was his new girl and I really wasnt. Like when you think someone is waving at you so you wave back and quickly force your hand down when the person behind you waves for you. The truth was I was someones old girl, recently removed. More like a scab really, itching and irritated. Not even a wound, a remnant. An ugly memory of the intensity of bloodloss. He scored 2 goals and everyone winked and knew it was because I was there.Numb fight to forget. He came back sweaty and smiling; proud. The guys gathered, undressing in an acrid circle and recounted the game. The girls stood on the outskirts waiting for the testosterone to subside.
Out at some bar, away from everything familiar was familiar to me. Green beer, baileys, irish nachos, tight smiling, quarters, everyone a little friendlier demanding that we do this again soon. Eyelids gain weight, beer warming, dvd menu screen, everyone recedes to bed, knowing what will happen if him and I are left alone. Oreos and old memories and "Im glad you came out" finally those half dried tears resprung and werent pushed away for company. They came deep and heavy, flooding his high hopes of my heart. Fine kindness as he rocked me to sleep in my wet regret. I couldn't have done it without his arms, a solace for sadness.

Tonight is going to be the night.
humming next to me as we nod at the inevitable.
sweet surrender,
indignant anticipation,
all summed together pulling toward tonight.
Meant for a reason, meant only for me.
words said, repeated, crossed out, synonyms,
opposites pushing away and towards.
I can't wait

I was wrong.
I thought you had it.
Secure and in place.
I was wrong
and you were right.

Footsteps in the hall,
an echo of a phone,
that soft look he gives, seeps in me.
Coincidental satisfaction,
sifting between people, drinks and reality.
Motionless beckoning,
without words.
Across this blue, sent through
a dense desire, heavy with affection.
Lines eagerly await you.

Gone now, slipped into some silent past.
Eyes full, closed, waiting to expell.
To know that it is forever
can be bitter.
To be the one left standing,
on an old corner,
watching the recession of love
can stain.
Walking can be shaky too.
Like the steps off the plank,
swaying with the water and regret.
Distance and time and then sweet again,
for another display,
another documentary of
determination.

I got rid of it you know.
Most every piece that drugged me,
dragged me,
dripped on me when I was peaceful.
Kindly solitude as you fade to yesterday.
You are on the back of a slow moving train
that is leaving town.
You have that sad gaze of one who knows they
have lost.
Flakes swirl around your cheeks
and mine
miles apart.
The wind chimes forgetfullness
as it melts the snow in its tracks.
Around a final bend and all that is left is
a soft breath of poetry that lingers on my page.

You are nothing for me;
but a place I got through,
A song I know the words too, but don't feel in me anymore.
I can see your face in a vague collection of pieces,
pieces that don't touch one piece of me.
Your hand reaches out through the memory of your words,
words so easily spent.
I gulp them in;
ingestion is ownership is over it.
So I walk down the sidewalk and smile and lean and sway.
Can't help but know it can't get nuthin but better.
Tried to convince myself that I deserve what is used and old;
No good
But it was a losing battle.
They walk beside me taunting,
inviting me to their masculine trophy case;
to watch me through the glass.
I just sway and smile and say;
I'm waiting for the A train, doll.

Up

I create anew, each day as the sun lightens, lightens;
slowly but surely as the fuzz grows from a peach.
Rise with new reason and smile at life's decor;
ambitious moments of solitude,
humble twine that ropes my days in place.
Soft beginning of cliff diving into the morning.
The candle is lit and I spring from the warmth of my dreams.
As the nights funeral ends, I sigh.

Don't look at me like that, with your feet askew, pointing in different directions as if to point me the wrong way. Look at me and disagree, don't sideglance your argument. I want to hear and know how you can't underestand this, this that I have measured, marked and cut. You are wrong and don't want to say, so you say everything else you can think of. Wounding words, sharp stabs at esteem, confidence crackers, you throw these and I catch them in my net of Disbelief.
How can you not see what is laid out in front of you like a hot meal waiting for your mouth to consumate it.
I can believe there was some fork in your road that hinder your ability to resolve conflicts, like a fork in your lifeline at some alteration in your journey here. I can't believe that you force yourself into this lonely corner of rightiousness. Do you keep a blanket there? At night when the past whispers what you know is true, do you listen? When the sun comes up on another chance to change and release your hold on stubborness, what is your ritual? Is it such a habit that you don't see it? Cancer that surges through and strokes your chances aside. Tomorrow maybe.

Body and Soul

given without a secret reservation.
Taken in one gesture with plans and sweet intentions,
long winding ideas of how it will all work out.
Days painted on walls yet to be built.
Trees planted from unborn seeds giving shade to our sanctity.
Smooth waves take control and the current sweeps us there.
A big red door opening to warm memories yet to breathe.
Bones mended, fights forgotten, surrendering to summer in peace and lemonade.
A's posted, teams trophied, hot soup seeping into cold corners.
I can hear the laughing and forgiving and all that rings a life given and received.
Clarinet swings through the air announcing without words
what you haven't said to a person
you haven't met...
when we begin the beguine.

Tell me something, in the dark of night when no one can see, why it is that this cut still bleeds?
Seems like it has been long enough. Seems like tears are dried and words are a violent memory.
Shaking has past, black alone, lids sealing in weak sensitivity. You are walking down the street breathing in the night with someone else, a quiet replica. She cooks from a box and skips syllables. Drives manually and expects neglect. I can feel all of that there, I can see you nodding in approval, in your tiny victory over feminism.

Clear your throat...

And I will tell you something. It bleeds because you are alive to live. Seeking the day that leans toward a humble beginning. A gentle future of family, friends, ferns, fundamentals, free.
Tears are the moisture of your soul, the by product of a body working towards an end result with no end. He is there, waiting. Not that old but one that knows and sees and loves. Peel away that thick cover for the fresh skin to take shape and reply to the outside.
Hold it there, soft and sentimental, caring and converting all the water to wine.