peace and sanity

   

I cannot write without it.

The Trees That Reached for Him

The reservoir is overcast, 

a tinge of grey clouding yesterday's bursting blues and whites. 

A boy I used to know sits on a fallen tree limb. 

His rubber soled shoes are wet and resisting the rocky sand. 

Tall, erratic trees, who know not which way to grow, 

are dispersed all around him, screaming his name. 

The birds are not out today. 

The sun is hiding, leaving a roundish, burning hole in the sky above. 

The boy seems preoccupied, he does not yet know of my presence. 

But wait--he rises and looks at me, as though possessed, holding a steady glance--he heads spellbound towards me. 

The wispy trees all around look like they are calling for him. 

His warm brown eyes are suddenly dressed in black circles. 

His teeth seem more jagged to me now that he is in full focus. 

His awkward lankiness is something I am suddenly embarrassed by. 

I remember taking off my shoes and walking on this sand, 

impervious to the harshness of the rocks. 

In my best dress, I stood strong; believing, overzealous. 

I ate every word he handfed me--it all went down so easily, that it must have been true. 

The muggy water washed up to my feet, 

kissing my toes, distracting me from the sting that must have been there all along,

that I do not ever remember recognizing. 

My mother said, "it's nobody's fault," fighting to be audible between my desperate sobs. 

I am not enough to bring him back again.

photo taken circa 2007

Red, Sweet Love

red lace, cherry lips,

the sweetness of 

my gentle kiss--

my heart, I can give, 

only to him.

his chest throbbing, 

hands pervading my quiet body,

a little unsure, I am, but finding

my way of

executing movements

with precision,

conviction.

breathing, 

a steady culmination of holding,

and holding back.

waiting for the right moment

and the right way

to touch

to feel the most

ecstasy.

fingers through your hair,

pulling, slightly.

soft but steady, confident

is how I hold you,

is my gaze,

is the way we find each other.

hands tremble slightly,

from the glory of glorifying 

the bodies--

from the out of bodied-ness 

the convergence

of us 

creates.

is it human nature,

to play up the touchable,

to tease with the porcelain skin,

the silhouette of someone like me,

the waves that frame my face--

the understated ways I secretly recognize I have

of making you eager?

candles lit,

I bite my lip, your lip,

the fuel to the fire

which keeps us guessing,

and entwines us for a little while.

the first one in awhile is and it's a little rocky... will fix up later

After the tumultuous storm of words like knives to my heart,

I felt like a child, overly affected and in need of attention--like you said.

Yet still I cannot fathom being apart

Even after the hurt we fired off like bullets, that went straight to the head.

This was the first time you ever spoke to me like that.

And I can only hope it wasn't true after the apologies.

And still I was the one to apologize first of all.

Lost myself in my desire to find comfort, 

And even though I made you call,

I felt better telling you the truth.

Two nights later, I fell asleep in your arms.

A sound and quiet sleep.

So difficult to disturb me when I'm safe from harm,

knowing a love, a love so deep.

this one's not a poem

it's roundabout, circuitous, 

imprecise,

and not quite what I want to say at all.

(poetry)

it's very hard to talk about things in terms of other things, today.

probably because I'm doing it for a grade.

Weight

Somewhere nearby

there is someone else cutting their losses.

To sever that which no longer

functions in conjunction with the mass,
or that acts as an anchor in the

grand scheme of things

is always the strong way;

Preferential to being seized by the

slaughter of a fairy tale ending, anyway...

but it's not easy.

My window sills have a few inches

of deep snow on them—the silt of

the downfall—and the sight

of the pane is making me stop

and think about it all,

and how I want you to be the crux of it,

but you are so stubborn, and I

am wanting to sleep

because I can't run out and distract myself

from my livelihood or lack-thereof

like I usually do.

The branches on my trees outside

are weighed down by the aftermath of the storm,

and so am I.

This is how sad it is when somebody goes

Mornings do not feel

the same without you here.

"Something" spins around and around

on the stereo,

I keep it on repeat to remind me.

The only thing that is missing the noise waking

you up, like that time I was making

pancakes and you woke up, startled and without me,

and instantly you were scared that I had left you.

Like I’d ever leave you.

All of the things I have painted mean nothing
without your approval.
The coffee can't hold a candle to your coffee,
and the trees I see on 64th Street
driving to work
aren't pretty at
Christmas time anymore,
at least not to me, driving without you.
I hardly even acknowledge it all,
or the premonition that you
might not come back.