There isn’t a
single

soul on
any of

these dark
deserted

streets,
in these

sleeping
homes, in this

vacant
parking lot,

in these
abandoned

stores in
a failed

mall, in
these lifeless

restaurants, and
I don’t know

where I
am or how

to locate
myself on

this dank moon-
less night.

At home, we each have our cell
our monastic life dedicated
to words and deeds
My words, his deeds

Walks after work
turning on each other's axis
like spiral trees on the edge
of an abyss

Practical issues
we discuss, the undiscussable
I write down in precise sentences
No endless talk

certainly not about myself
And in my struggle
to be seen
as I am

never using improper
words as a weapon
rather encouraging him
to be his best self

Smoke me into your lungs.
Breathe me in slow,
as if you’re savoring
something dangerous
but necessary.

Let me flow through you,
your chest,
your bloodstream,
your thoughts
until I reach your brain
and settle there,
quietly unraveling the edges
of what you thought you knew.

Let me blur your vision,
soften the sharp parts
until all that’s left
is warmth and ache.

Let me live beneath your skin,
humming low,
like a secret you keep
but never tell.

Exhale me,
and I’ll still linger
in the spaces between breaths,
in the soft hush
before sleep.

I don’t want to be forgotten.
I want to be felt.
Like smoke that leaves its trace
long after the fire is gone.

I wake up to nothing
       but chirping birds
            and the drip of coffee
                   pouring down,
            and wonder how I feel
       about it all—
             and find it refreshing
       to know I see it
            like a fairy fountain,
       standing tall—
calling me to slip on shoes
    and even walk on air
         if that’s what I choose.

Children rush past me,

I hold on to the edge, no --


longer a mother.

You are too beautiful
to be touched
by anyone, by me

alone, I hope
if I may, if I dare
to do what someone may one day

I pass your house
There is only a window
between me and your bed

in which I dream myself
when I cannot sleep
and hold my breath

and time stands still
intoxicated by your lips
I feel your hand

on my chest, no
I won't run away
when you open the door

I'm just a bit peckish
and ready for a skirmish,
said the early bird
who was feeling wormish!