Sometimes I miss
the way we would talk
before we knew each other

so completely and thoroughly. Back
then, though it seems eons
have passed, we would only skim
across the surface of the other, touching

lightly, the dragonflies of our questions
creating the smallest of ripples
on the top layer of the pools
that were us, never close

enough to even guess at
the hidden depths. Oh, but we
were playful, back then, glistening fliers
chasing one another, sometimes-

rarely- truly touching, throwing up wings
to dazzle with color, to hide
ourselves, the parts we were afraid
were disfigured and damaged, the parts

that were the only parts
truly us. Slowly, our eyes strengthened,
we learned to see though our flimsy
shields, we embraced, piece by painful

piece, each other’s hurt parts, misshapen
and deformed though they were. As we grasped how
to see, not only look, I think
we both realized we are not truly

dragonflies. Maybe we don’t even know what
we are, yet. But as the murky
expanses of you slowly become clearer
to me, and our waters mingle, I know I truly

belong here. I would not trade you
for the world, but sometimes I miss
the sun-filled, glittering glory
of dragonflies over shadowy pond, touching

only the lightest of touches, playful
and flirtatious and impersonal
and giddy.

There was a time when words
would gallop through my head like
herds of horses, leaving me gasping
and trampled in the muck

of my emotions. Their hoof prints, scars,
on my mind, on my heart,
marking me as “writer,” though I felt
I did not deserve such a title.
How could I, when horses break free

of their own volition? As weeks
passed, I
began to
learn the ways
of the herds
of my mind,

the strangely
rhythmical
cadence of
their hooves on
the insides

of my skull.
Though I could
never run
with them, I
learned to ride

fast; I learned
to decide
which would run
today; I
learned to guide

their forceful
direction,
while clinging
tightly to
the first horse

I wanted
to work to
a lather.
Sometimes, when
I am weakened, we fight

for control of my pen, my horses
and I, but they
are always
just that- my
horses. Now,

though I am
only starting,
I feel I
can somehow
finally

lay claim to
the title
of “poet.”

Last year
you weren't here
for my birthday. I
understood, of course, even though
it hurt just a bit. When
we talked on the phone, you
told me when you returned, we
would do something together, and
I giggled, playing through my mind
the word you used, tasting
its heavy cream on tongue,
"decadent."

Last year
you returned
and you had forgotten
your promise. I understood,
of course, even though it hurt
more than just a bit. You were
busy, though time for criticism and
loud shouting matches and afterwards,
muffled sobbing into my pillow was always
made. In the back of my mind I
kept waiting for an acknowledgment,
maybe, if I was feeling optimistic,
even an apology. It never came. My hope, turned
decrepit.

This year
I look back
at what could have been,
and I understand, of course, but
memories of my blind faith in you hurt
the dying spark of optimism, the one
you haven't killed off, yet. Now,
I am the one who will not be here
for my birthday. You, wanting
only an excuse, will try and gift me with
your presence, commit actions
in my name, actions I do not want. Our love
lost, I do not ask if ever it existed, I know
the affirmative will only hurt me. We
are so shattered, we are far past
the point of being
Delicate.

The ***** of my coat still
smell like you and I want to crawl
back into bed, wearing your scent like
the choicest perfume, maybe
then my insomnia made of only
longing will stop long
enough for my mind to finally quiet
from singing its refrain of you over
and over and over and over and maybe
then I will be able to safely
sleep.

The air around me is too big
without you to fill it and the world
is cold and bites at me, you
kept it at bay, as I wait
for the way away
from you I just want
to find my way back. Please,
say that that's possible.