I turned eighteen, and the floor dropped out.

The summer before, the clean-shaven men
at concerts, the ocean, at grimy
gas stations, would gaze at me
with their sallow eyes and creep
closer, stuffing their tarnished
wedding rings into their pockets. I pretend
I don't notice the approach.

I'm sweetheart now, and the world is dying
to know about my day. The artless
small talk ******
my cheeks a shameful red--
always this crass, unsolicited
acupuncture.  

Now, I'm darling. I'm baby-- my
age the next delicate question laid
across their taste buds.

A year ago, I could blush and remind
them of my mere seventeen trips around
the sun, and off they'd retreat as if
the law were the only thing keeping
my clothes on my body.

The eighteenth trip has come and
past; from here on out
I fly alone, braving the flocks of
pitiful predators.

I'm not an idiot.
I have faced your subtle rejection
as often as one's own breath;
the sting and recoil dull with each
understated devastation.

Believe me when I say
that I kick myself
dutifully.
A jaundiced bruise for
each time the familiar
feeling creeps and wells beneath
my goose-pimpled skin.

Today, you brushed my hand
a second too long.
The day before, you leaned
against the wall-- I undressed
you with my eyes.

God knows
why I read into these moments.
The butterflies
are just as soon ripped
wing from flimsy wing.

I'm not fatuous. But I'll
take tomorrow's lashings with
a smile. Call me your
masochistic romantic. Cringe in
my blushing face.
Leave it to me to find the
cliched glint in your dull eyes--
for I will always get off on
falsities before
settling for indifference.

He always kept candles, loved
to watch their silent vigil stand
bright against shadow.
He lit them, letting himself
get lost in
their seductive mirage--
only long enough to
snap out of a haze
and extinguish the light between
his fingers.
In a way,
he lived for their death,
the curling of pungent smoke, mingling
with stale bedroom air.

But he also thrived on their rebirth--
the glowing ember, *******
breath from the smoke and
regenerating from ashes.

We were young,
patting the upturned earth
around our hopeful oak sapling,
warming it with
hot breath.
I imagined it sprouting, fanning out
overnight to
extraordinary size; but you
just giggled and told
me to be patient.
That one day we'd sit
beneath its shadow together,
humming a secret song.

Today, I returned to
our spot in the weeds.
The sun beat down, glaring
at my single shadow.
Axe in hand, I severed
its mocking spine in two,
working desperately to forget your
piercing, lilting voice-- your
absent footfalls next
to mine.

The leaves changed
early this year,

shriveled and fell
to my feet.

The breeze
grew bitter,
a spiteful sigh
blowing

a wayward leaf into
my shaking palms.
In haste, I pressed it to my heart;

                  two withered orphans, it and I

The tide rolled in behind your eyes,
their horizons permitting slivers of grey morning light
to bounce off of all you beheld.

You sighed with a brine laden breath
that tickled my cheeks
with dawn's brisk numbness.

I felt a renascent smile sprout from my lips.
I let you wash right over me.