After watching The Romantics. this might sound strange

she appears angelic in an ethereal low bun, wispy pieces falling around her face

she wears a light pink, airy dress with taupe peep-toes

a light grey wrap covers her shoulders.

to bed she wears a peachy night gown that clings to her like a corset.

it has lacy accents and ties in the back.

on her wedding day, her hair was done in loose spirals. tiny flowers were carefully placed in the strands. her porcelain skin looked like a china doll's, her eyes looked almost black against it. her eyebrows were so perfectly sculpted. she couldn't be real.

no wonder he left the Plain Jane for her.

the Plain Jane is in a black dress, one shoulder, still pretty, but she's looking a little frumpy, washed out.

her legs are clunky-looking in those black pumps.

her sweater is more practical, chunky and drab.

I'm wondering how it would feel to be the other woman,

graciously ignoring the way I took him from her,

and turning toward the wind so my hair blew in the breeze like I myself was a dream.

that's a woman and man in love

a complex back and forth

of being embraced & giving space

that's a woman and a man in love.

tears remedied by a bouquet carefully chosen,

a rough deal at work calmed by gentle lips on his cheeks and neck--

those are the quiet steps we take in the middle of the night

so as not to disturb the peace, not wanting them to wake them from the enamored trance too soon.

it's mind-reading & suppression of feelings to gain desired response.

sometimes it backfires.

it's not saying what you really think, most of the time.

these are the pains we take to feel appreciated, while mesmerized by the beauty of a stranger grown familiar

Anniversary Poems.

it's our 2.5 years anniversary and I'm sitting lonely in a coffee shop at Christmas-time,

watching couples in ski-jackets and trench coats holding hands as they pass the leafless trees lit with white Christmas lights--my favorite kind of Christmas lights.

I'm on my second mug of coffee. I'm such a regular they give me the house porcelain mugs, none of that paper bullshit.

is it strange I so often find myself in coffee shops alone?

I lit candles today as I sat in my room.

I started to write about you--about the quiet, poetic things I think about you when we're laying in your bed holding hands or you're affectionately spooning me and gently stroking my arm, like I told you I like 3 years ago before we had even kissed--but then I couldn't get the words out of my head and onto paper.

I glance out the window again, let out a deep sigh, and I wonder why sometimes you can't just lay there and look at me.

Don't speak, don't kiss me, just look at me in a moment of silence. Maybe stroke my hair, but don't look away. Be unafraid to appreciate all that's in front of you.

Write about your greatest fear.

Picture this:

walking over a wooden bridge,

it's nighttime. you waited until late because you wanted to be alone with the one you loved.

maybe the slabs of wood are still moist from the day's rain shower.

maybe the nails are rusted.

maybe the bridge leads to a resting area overlooking the water, which is black and opaque from the night sky's reflection.

maybe he proposes, says something profound that makes you cry, that weakens you, and you say yes and embrace.

maybe that happens. and maybe you go back to your hotel room and you know what happens next and maybe you silently whisper forever forever forever over and over again,

and you wake up enveloped in ivory sheets, laying next to him, and he is admiring your beauty, touching your hair and lips gently.

what if that life is the only thing you've ever wanted? what if you're imagining a house with a wraparound porch, and children that don't go through a gothic stage, that don't roll their eyes when you cry as you drop them off for their first day of college? what if you're thinking about your mother in law becoming your best friend, harmonious vacations at the beach, Sunday morning service, and celebrating each anniversary as though it were the first? what if you think this man will never stop saying he loves you, will never stop meaning it, and what if you think he won't start spending too much time out at the bars and come home late smelling like hard alcohol, and he will thank you for dinner each night, and when things get busy at work he won't treat you like a non-entity? what if you're thinking he will still tell you you're beautiful, even 50 years later, when all that's left is a pair of easy chairs and a stack of newspapers and sporadic visits from the grandkids?

Shit.

What if it just doesn't happen that way? What if you won't be enough to command his attention long enough, what if he falls out of love, but you stay in that same sweet loving place, and there's nothing you can do to change his mind?

That's the worst fear of all.

in lamen's terms, I'll come right out and say it...

lately, I'm preoccupied with the thought

I want to ignore it

a man on one knee,

he wants me to be his world forever.

I'm only 21 years old but I fear

this may never happen for me.

disagreements, I can't handle them

because in my eyes they mean you don't want me anymore.

trust is impossible sometimes,

and I can't just come out and say what I think when I'm ticked off.

I hope who I am

does not destroy my romantic dream

of one person forever, for everything, that will never stop loving me.

it's a helpless, pointless anxiety. I better get over it soon

before I mention it in conversation and

freak you the fuck out.

Modeled off of "for Jane" by Charles Bukowski

mid-morning, your bare shoulders

hunch over the red quilt

they carry more than you show

you're an abyss in the best way

in this room

the lover's slumber

still pervades

when you wake

you kiss me like a reflex

everything drifts like a canoe on quiet water

I struggle to make my furious love known

before this I never knew anything

that was worth knowing

what you are

will never happen again

my lips graze your chest

and I fling myself into your embrace and pray for your love to keep

Modeled off of "secret laughter" by Charles Bukowski

the depths of my heart are

inaccessible to the simple minded

who can't look

or even conceive to admire the chasm

they wouldn't believe

how bottomless

it really must be.

in much the same way

an ocean seems to stretch eternally,

my love is limitless.

yet it's inappreciable to many,

"in much the same way

as the average person

will not believe a great painting"- C.B.