the moon meets the sun

i've tasted 
fire and ice

neither
fully satisfied.

I taste you

a combination
of heat
and cold

of floral
and earth

and I want it
again
and again.

You are a balance.
An in between
I didn't know
I could experience.

I waited for the moonrise
and you showed me worth
in holding out
for the sun.

Worn

I fell into something familiar
and like the last go,
it ended in
abrupt
explosive
and repetetive
goodbyes.

The familiar no longer
felt like
a warm fireplace.
It burned my
skin
and I turned to look
to something
cooling.

Something healing.

I fell into something familiar
those two years ago.

This time,
I walk into something
new.

She calls me tresora

I help care for my Nanna. 
My father and uncle hold her
as my mother and I clean her.
 
She sits and cries,
 
“You should not see this, Marisa.”
 
“I’m happy to be here Nanna. I need to be.”
 
“I want to kiss you.”
 
I lean in, place
my forehead against her lips.
We sit like this for a moment.
 
The quiet is treasure,
just as she’s called me her’s
all my life.
And just like that,
the moment flees.
 
The chaos begins again.
Love in its many forms.
Suffering, too.

April 1st

You share you haven’t 
written
in two months.

I’m startled at the idea
that you’ve not reflected
or inspired
a note
a poem
or paragraph
while I’ve written about you
most days.

I’ve written about you
since the night
I thought
you were something other
than who you turned
out to be.

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.

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.

Shoreline

Paused,
I stood on the boardwalk
unsure of how close
to the Atlantic's edge
I could allow 
my planted feet.

I slept on the beach
as the sun drifted
to horizon
and I still
could not touch my
body to the 
water.

I knew then
that if I 
sought peace
at the shoreline
I would find myself there.

Yearning and sad.
Emptying what 
came before 
and making space
for the new.

Unsure if I could
continue grieving
what came and went,
what did not
happen.

The shoreline contained
both open and closed ends
of whatever it is
that led me to the ocean water.

The shore revealed
all parts of me
alone and seeking
something other
than the company
of my own mind.

And so I left
the ocean
and its company
a day early
because I was not ready
to hold
what its waters
led me
to face.