I so badly wanted it
to be you.
It was temporary.
We were, that is.
That made it
no less real.
I sure did
like to pretend,
though.
I held on
just in case
i was proven
wrong.
Tag: loss
smothered
Up until that point I had seen no clearer skies or stars as abundant I remember you in images of the fire on the shore sounds of the dark waves, the blanket on the sand- I read my book instead of looking at you under those stars. And tonight across the blackest of clouds a lighting storm a cascade of lines and energy of matter and change You were both there and not there Just the same as under the Milky Way at the shores of the Great Lakes on the edge of the fire that we smothered with sand and water.
Hands
I left you in July, started again in August. I’ll spend September wondering how you are. You sat there holding my hands, “I don’t want to let you go,” You implored, as if you could not see that I no longer knew the hands in my own. I knew you no more or no less than I had the July before or the one before that. “I miss that special bond,” He said to me, a week after. What bond is silent, I wanted to ask. What bond exists only in two laptop screens and a tv monitor a late night cuddle, a quick- paced walk. Perhaps you did know me more than I knew you. Maybe I let you know me. The me that left and rose from your bedroom floor knows not of how or why two years from the day I asked for promises changed everything I thought I wanted.
D minor
There are only so many
chords and notes
I haven’t learned them
all and I’m not sure if -
Are these enough?
I know rhythms that
we've created
in innocent
moments
then there are the ones
he, of course,
added to
and spontaneously -
it's fluid and changing
and the lyrics do not
fit or seem to end -
Falter.
I’m no braver today
than yesterday.
I want to add to it
but what I have in front
of me can only take me
so far.
You see,
I wrote you a song.
I play it,
wondering
the ways you would
respond
Would you make it your own?
Would you want it to change?
The song starts in minor
the sound of its harmony
fades
into uncertainty.
What would you say
if I asked you to
finish it,
together?
I know the answer.
That’s not even the
right question.
I’m really asking -
Do you hear it in the
same ways
I do?
So far from the keys,
I don’t have the
ability
to write its end.
It’s there, though,
in chords and
notes that only
you know.
it flows, you see,
for you, alone.
They say things change
I suppose it's true that connections and friendships wax and wane that falling in love and career pursuits take energy and priority Still I wonder or maybe regret. the appraisal of life's needs and obligations and my own wants it's the balance I have not yet learned
In the next room
In one room
my grandmother begs for peace.
She cries for her mother,
screams in confusion and pain.
In the kitchen, he cooks dinner alone.
Smelts, fresh bread, salad, a beer.
I watch my grandfather as he moves
quiet and purposeful.
He fries the fish as he holds back tears.
He hears his wife cry out in pain.
His own is angry, frustrated.
He tells me,
“this was not supposed to happen.
This is not how I imagined the end.”
He sits at the kitchen table
the Steelers’ game plays in front of him
He does not notice me watching
as he drizzles hot sauce on his meal.
He turns, sensing me behind him,
tells me to grab a plate.
I do, knowing this is an important offering.
He fixes me dinner,
too many smelts than I can stomach,
salad, and bread.
I begin to eat silently next to him
This is his language of love.
He gets up suddenly
grabs a glass from the cupboard
pours half of his beer in the glass.
He hands it to me.
I drink. I take him in.
I say nothing. Because I know
he needs this. He needs me
to be silent with him, to eat
the food he has made
to accept what love
he has left to give.
To do something
anything.
Burn
There is pain
at the center of my chest
it reaches for cold,
anything to soothe the fire
you had no intention of lighting.
Tell me,
what is the antidote
to loneliness?
To rejection?
You do not reach out.
It hurts more than if
you’d simply write
to tell me
I am not the one for you.
I am burning, burning,
don’t you see?
Moments and meaning and time
swirling around,
wasted.
Wasted on
thinking of a love
that never began
or lasted
long enough
for it to burn.
Language Barrier
In Portuguese
you describe
the point in your life
when you decided
to free yourself
from ties and commitment,
accountability.
In English
you said,
“Yes, I’m open.”
In your language,
in your truth,
you come to terms
with your spirit,
split in two
half existing elsewhere
the other seeking joy, here.
A vagabond has no home.
Potentially aimless,
leaving ruin in some places.
Excitement in others.
A vagabond cannot hold
what I’m asking to be held.
In your language, you proclaim,
“Eu ainda estou levando esta vida.”
Vagabundeando.
I reach for you in my own language.
Your answer is a mixture of
words I do not understand.
"Come here,"
I want to say.
Make a home in my chest,
have adventures with me.
You choose something else,
a different life.
A different person.
You choose everything but me.
I am no place for a vagabond.
I may be searching
but this heart has roots.
I’ll look to the south
You are
your favorite authors
your beloved
literary characters.
I dive to understand
your mind
and come up
breathless and more confused.
I seek refuge among
the clues you’ve given me
in memories a decade old.
I review the
drunken truths you let
slip that evening.
I only get you
when your guard is down,
broken in with substances
meant to numb you.
I just hope I find you
before you meet the same fate
as the characters you look to
to fill your lonely heart.
Loss
There is an understanding
that emerges
with the experience of loss.
It's an emptiness
and fullness.
Grief mixed with hope.
It could be
two people
in different life events,
unmatched feelings,
let downs.
Whether potential is not met
or another chooses
to withhold contact,
it seems important to lose
because it means
one was open
to gain.
The loneliness remains
in the idea
that one day
there could be
connection and joy
in the company of another.
There seems to be
something compelling
in the act
of losing the potential
of another.
I want to acknowledge
that loss
doesn't mean
something was lost.
The Restless Crescent 