It’ll Be Okay

I have to show up broken, and why is this so hard for me?
Because I don’t want you to see me, not like this,
and so I have to leave my pride at the doorway
and try to remind myself that maybe, just maybe,
I’m not as broken as I use to be,
and maybe, just maybe, two/three more months
from now my strength will continue to increase (I pray),
because seeing you have to see me like this,
I can’t even begin to explain what that felt like,
except that I had wished in that very moment when our eyes
said everything we couldn’t, that the whole surrounding universe
could have just faded away; your arms around me,
your kiss upon my face, and the assurance
in your voice,“it’ll be okay, Jen. It’ll be okay.”

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Now

I’ve missed so many seasons,
where I’ve watched from the window,
even now, as the leaves fall
as though film in slow motion,
and how many thoughts
over these last few months
I’ve spent in retrospection,
wanting more than ever now
for life to start moving forward,
with me beneath the falling
leaves, as they come down
around me now, and at regular speed
before they turn to snowflakes.

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A Composer’s Dream

The rain falls
like notes
on the asphalt,
the sky,
a composer’s dream,
and he weeps
while his fingers
glide across
the keys
and all the gray
that’s in-between
is where
the music is
within the rain,
between ebony
and ivory.

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Want

Want –

And didn’t I?
and how temporarily
I forgot
how much,
how incessant
this feeling
got once

Want –

And you come
round again
reminding me,
so much
I want to cuss!
away
this feeling

Want –

And oh,
yes it does
burn
like a something
mother
fucking
hot!

This want –

That I ain’t
gonna lie,
that thoughts
of you
kept me up
half the night!
and you know
the feeling,

Want –

That it’s
about time
you do something,
honey,
to help me
sleep
at night.

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The Golden Mean

The light looks best in mornings,
and perhaps it’s because
my eyes haven’t yet adjusted
completely to the day
and my mind has yet to wrap
itself around comprehension
and so instead, I find myself
immersed in it; the light,
like a warm bath you’ve just
run for me and now sit on the side
and ask about the depth
of the bow at my upper lip,
as though you’ve always loved it,
and I have to wonder now,
if upon first sight, did your eyes
take measurements; of height,
depth, and width, and did you find
among it, the golden mean? For
is that not what this light feels like
in mornings? Immersed in all this
glowing, warm familiarity.

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Our Human Existence

We put blank pieces of paper in front of us
and wait for answers to come and present
themselves in words that form sentences,
or sometimes instead, questions we hadn’t
even thought to ask ourselves, or anyone
else, for that matter, that the pieces of paper,
if we stare long enough, we find, stare back
until it becomes a blinking, “don’t blink!”
contest of wits, or maybe it’s stamina, this
whole writing process of trying to convey
some kind of meaning, some kind of sense,
is in the way we arrange the typography
I guess, of this; our human existence.

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The Wild Horse

What strange peculiarities
thoughts are,
like the wild horse,
how unpredictable,
constantly changing,
like the sky, the wind,
the seasons,
all coming, all going,
all lovely in their own
rightful way of being,
with mood, emotion,
feeling as I do,
unquestionable,
without reason,
and how joy comes
so unexpectedly
through the doorway,
like the face
you always knew.

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Dreams on the Wind

Autumn comes to lull
Summer fast to sleep
as dreams fly about
like leaves on the wind,
and Summer wakes to yawn,
then sleeps again,
while Autumn works hard
to shorten the days.

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Tightrope Walkers

I don’t even know
where to begin,
when fear
of the future
wells up
inside of me,
and “you have
no idea,”
how much
time and effort
it takes me
to put on
this poker face
every morning,
straight as an arrow,
and from
the outside in,
“I look okay,”
but to walk
a straight line
nowadays
is a feat left for
the tightrope walkers
I watch with
so much jealousy now
I could almost
choke on
the thought of
having that ability
once again;
to walk so
effortlessly,
one foot in front
of the other
without the fear
of falling off
this string we all
must balance on –
called life.

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Something

Maybe he had a handshake
that felt like we’d met
somewhere before,
or a face I’d seen
in a crowd once
but never forgot,
perhaps while I was waiting
for a flight at the airport,
or maybe he’d been
in front of me in the line
at Starbucks while I dallied
on my phone
and tried to pretend
I didn’t notice the sheer
breadth of his shoulders,
or how the color of his hair
reminded me
of Edgar Allan Poe’s,
“Nevermore.”

But it was something,
as he took in my face
as though he were someone
who already knew me
and yet, for some reason,
wanted more,
that for a moment,
I almost felt uneasy
in my fear of his reality,
and real is what it felt like;
to be seen by someone
who wants to see,
even as the Raven sits
above the doorframe,
that I could not bring myself
to stare into his face
with the same intensity,
and so would often let my eyes drop
in admiration of his shoes
and how much they were worn.

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