She was my childhood best friend.
Adjacent each other, we would grow.
From church affairs, or in her basement,
to the Abby and Abby Show.
We looked out for one another,
like when we tried out for track.
I was the one who went back for her
when she had a breath attack.
Then neither of us made the cut,
but we did not even care.
And although we speak in fragments now,
the bond is ever there.
I can hear it when we catch up,
she deals with more than she shows.
She struggles with herself in secret,
that is how the stories go.
I wish her mirror said to her
what the rest of the world insists.
She is a delicate, dark, ethereal,
creative, impassioned spirit.
Picking Flowers With a Ghost
His eyes glimmered, alike to the false evergreen;
she still gazes every once in a while.
Embracing her willing body, of which he owned,
he gratefully cast his fleeting smile.
She sensed he felt seen and understood.
Perhaps, for the first instance in his lifetime.
In a similar manner, she felt the same
during that whimsical Christmastime.
It was the brightest she had ever seen him
in that moment, a globe of glass.
She would have stolen it to keep in her music box
had she known it would be the last.
I never heard my own voice until I related to yours.
Words effortlessly flow by our hands, with no specific outline.
I find great admiration and endearment for your work.
You poeticize emotions, for which I was unaware of my own possession.
Your name belongs to my short, exclusive list of icons.
May I be half as great as you once were.
I Am a Poet
My mornings are spent reading poetry,
my days, creating it.
Life has become poetry; I am a poet.
All seemingly connects again, at long last.
My Perfect Morning
I sat cross-legged in the library, reading the works of Mary Oliver.
“I wish I could sit like that,” said a man.
I forced a chuckle.
“It’s not funny. One day you’ll be old, too.”
It was almost enough to spoil my perfect morning.
Then again, I guess we all need a reminder every once in a while.
An Afternoon on Main Street
I never knew this town could be so lovely, even on an ordinary, Tuesday afternoon.
There is a chill to the warmth. The approach of Autumn plants traces in the air.
I admire the trolley; it is nice to see tradition adapt,
to exist and observe, to take a time out.
I am infatuated with each passerby: the man with the puppy,
the biker with a bandana tied to his forehead.
I imagine him tying it in the mirror before his commute.
The fashionable women, strolling in solitude. I hope to be just like them.
The puppy on his hind legs within the crowd—he loves the world as much as it loves him.
“Sometimes, being a bitch is all a woman’s got to hold onto.”
This remark rings true.
What else can you be when the whole room is against you?
When the man on the bus demands for you to smile.
When the fraternity president begs you to stay a while.
When you are intoxicated, and it is an open invitation.
When you are knowledgeable, and they insist on mansplaining.
When you are innocently working, and they objectify for sport.
When they aggressively taunt, and cursing is your last resort.
When you politely decline, and their requests become relentless.
When you are savagely sexualized no matter how you are dressed.
When you are reduced to “pussy”, although you are so much more.
When you are not taken seriously, or labeled as a “whore”.
Steven King, I understood you then, and now, even further.
Do they understand now why this battle is so fervent?
I pray understanding has settled with you well.
I am saddened our paths di v er g e d,
and we were lost in translation.
Although no one is at fault,
I am still sorry.
We were one and the same. It seems as if a piece of me is left with you, and you with me.
No amount of resentment, which existed with friction, remains now. Only hope for our futures—s e p a r a t e at best.
Growing together was special, like siblinghood—on better terms.
Your backyard was the spot, although we made the neighborhood our extended playground. We spent countless hours painting the world as we knew it.
In spending, don’t you lose something? It surely has a cost. I cannot formulate a better word, so it will suffice.
I know various forms of tag due to the placement of my childhood home. I know how to select the sweetest honeysuckle, how to treat a friend. It was gorgeous to live so simply, don’t you think?
You were homeschooled, I was not. I believe we both had something to exchange in that way. I shared with you the culture, in return you gifted me with a unique sort of vision. You were always the pure ones, don’t you know?
So pure, you were unaware of our conditions. Your parents had to have known, I am sure of that now.
I think that kind of innocence had a profound effect on my existence, my entire being. Perhaps, I would not be writing today if not to have known you.
I believe we were solely meant to be neighbors in this lifetime. The stories were perfected, and so they are finished. What a special phenomenon to have known people like you.
As you continue to grow, I pray you can retrieve those facets of yourself, as need be. I am fortunate to know the location of mine.
I am certain your own children will experience the same. The gift will live on.
I suppose in spending, there is something to lose and to gain. So, I changed my mind. The word encapsulates it entirely.
I conversed with the river this morning.
With evaporating smoke, she too was waking up.
‘Soon,’ Says the Moon
The night settles intently,
but not before the lingering moment,
to kiss the day goodnight, to wish her well,
and promise to graze each other soon.