365

there was a euphoric glimpse
walking on the frozen Brooklyn streets
holding hands
holding those seconds
when it seemed as if
we were the only people in all of the city
moments past midnight
exhaling frozen breath like smoke
forming the existence of what would become Us.
forming hearts in our hands
crossing bridges to burroughs
left remembering what the snow tasted like
and the excitement of exploring a new ending to our story
countless seconds counting down
saying good-bye to sadder times
days when that empty feeling crept back inside of me
feeling like no one held a key to me
or matched the puzzle pieces within me
when suddenly things fell together so easily
holding hands across a table
without the words to express the gratitude
I feel towards the universe
and whoever is pulling these strings.
been waiting for a bubble to pop
someone to pinch me, a shoe to drop
but now I'm relaxing the grip on the wheel
waiting for the next 365 days
to unfold themselves like origami gifts
taking a mental catalog of every ordinary moment
that I am grateful for this story

inevitable

People talk about
meant to be
not make believe
but destiny.
written amongst
stars it seems
magically
A cynics dream
to find a scene
straight from
the screen.
two lovers locking eyes
and mesmerized
they realize
without compromise.
those who know
it’s burning slow
this inner glow
will radiate
this perfect fate.
after so much wait
almost too late
saved me from tragedy
a life it seemed
without you and me.

eighteen years

time is just numerical
a qty of sequences
ones and twos
lined up endlessly
in repetitive rows
like musical notes
to be played over and over
always sounding different
depends on the ear
eighteen years, the same as
six thousand five hundred seventy days
this spot was an empty void
inside me, waiting as usual
to feel something
akin to some lame quote
from romantic comedies
eighteen years, the same as
one hundred fifty-seven thousand,
six hundred eighty hours
I spent less than four hundred
miles from you
at any given moment
listening to the same music
on the same radio waves
and walking the same pavement
in the same cities
only to pass by the same parking lot
where we once sat on the hood of your car
sharing cigarettes
and awkward glances
I would stare at your arms
you would watch my lips move
never really getting anywhere
eighteen years, the same as
nine million four hundred sixty thousand
eight hundred minutes
I spent incapable of moving towards
anything of permanence in my life
be it my choice or chosen for me
by some twist of fate
I’ve wandered back to the starting line
if only to wait for you to
reset your clock
and synchronize your watch once again
with my own
eighteen years, the same as
five hundred sixty-seven million,
six hundred forty-eight thousand seconds
spent to find you
exactly where we are standing
today

Homemade

there are white walls
blank canvases
to hang smiles upon
captured moments
empty wood floors
awaiting the sound
of bare feet
quiet steps in
the early hours of the morning
sitting in front of the television
watching saturday morning cartoons
eating cereal from my favorite bowl
forgetting I've been
an adult for years now.
there is clean air
that has not been made into
angry black mold clinging to
remnants of what is living
growing within walls
hidden from the eyes of visitors
to multiply
after midnight
dead now from
exposure to light.
there are open doors
without any hesitation
windows open to the future
where i can exhale
within a home decorated
with new memories
born of the briefest moments
those seconds
when his face
would rest at my forehead
never knowing
i was always home

when again

words have stopped flowing like tears
creating comfortable silence
where previous temperments
made for tempermental tapping furiously upon keyboards
like machine gun fire
couldnt get the letters on the screen fast enough
when i wanted to write about this sense of dissatisfaction
that lingering feeling
left dry at the roof of my mouth
the taste leftover when the cocktails have stopped
numbing the fact that life isnt getting any better.
what is a writer to do when the anger ceases?
when soft kind eyes find their own
when reassuring hands tear down walls guarding hearts
only to expose the sugar coated lovesongs that lived there all along?
the sad poems are not rolling off my tongue
instead i want to doodle hearts in the margins of my notebook
write his name next to mine in blue ink
the writer in me- wearing black
who counted the coffee rings that began to stack
over and over and on top of one another
as the days ticked away slowly
redundant and anticlimactic is slowly
drawing her last breaths
only to be replaced by this bright eyed
smiling girl
who has started to believe in magic again
who has started to sing along to love songs
with windows rolled down
on freeways that lead me to him
words have stopped flowing like tears
they have changed into a mantra
repeated three words over and over
to turn the light back on and illuminate this room

Captured 3/13/13

There is a moment when the sides of your mouth
curl up to make perfect parentheses around your smile
simultaneously, it emerges from your eyes
only to spill down your face like happy tears
to wash away any doubts I ever had

There is a moment when I awaken and realize
you are there beside me arms so long they wrap around
entirely, guarding me from nightmares
that have plagued me for so many years
to keep me safe for the first time

There is a moment when words fail to leave lips
when a kiss or breath is the only way to communicate truly
how full my heart feels when drenched
in the pools of my reflection within your eyes
when I let myself relax and believe them

Sweetest Cacophony

Words fail
to encapsulate
let alone illustrate
this internal
metronome-
beat
breath held
beat
beat
scientific proof
of love.
let me add
in case you were not sure,
I do reciprocate
these feelings
 these created chemical
reactions are
something like
a freeform 6/8 time signature
from deep within my
rib-caged
bass drum-
hitting like
beat-beat.
breath
beat-beat.
breath
yet becoming
something more like
speeding
rising up from somewhere
void of conscious decisions
forgotten delusions
letting the notes
play as they may
rushing now
after being held at bay
for what seems like
forever
beat-beat-beat.
breath
beat-beat-beat.
breath
faster still
triple time
when you lay beside me
impossible to
deny cravings
unlike any satisfaction
I have known
music starts to swell
to something like screaming
too close to ears
delicate.
when these notes
become an illustration
a deviation
from
previous life paths
to create
the sweetest cacophony
of sound
makes me feel like my
heart may leap from my chest
directly to your
open palms
formed in perfect
collaboration
with mine.