I watch helpless as you walk
away, torn between the desire
to fight until the bitter end
and an urge to give in to despair.

It’s hard to imagine that never
again will a poem be written
for you by my hand, nor
a song be sung by my lips.

We will never again walk through
the park, hand in hand.  I will never
again twirl you in my arms in the
middle of the mall while you laugh
in embarrassment and happiness.

I will never stare up at you with my puppy-
dog eyes nor will you ever again see my
face light up in a smile.  My laughter will
have disappeared forever from your ears.

Never again will my strong arms
make you feel safe and secure.
Never will you feel my tender touch.
Never again will your lips feel my loving kiss.

You will never feel our hearts
beat as one while we release
our pleasure simultaneously.

Never again will you see the
adoration in my eyes while
we make love.  You’ll never
again hear me say I love you.

This was a choice I never believed
you would make.  So, never again
will I be a fool.  Never again will
I love.  Never again will I trust.

Never again will I be
anything but
damaged goods.  

Never again.

“Haaa,” I sighed, releasing these stale tensions.
“I know it’s not so fair to be upset,”
But talks of ultrasounds and interventions,
Tinge everything that’s right with mild regret.

I sometimes ache for life as told by family photo albums,
And could-be love, as written in that diary,
Since everything once bright eventually succumbs
To  inevitable joy-expiry.

He's so sensitive and apologetic
when he remembers
he could lose me.

I like when he has to try.

Maybe he will change,
but who knows.

At least we're not married
with kids
and committed (fully).

Thank God.

"Could we find somewhere to sit? Do you know someplace with like, benches, and a fountain or something?"
He sips at an Icee, less of an Icee and more of a blend of colored sugar and foam because the machine is on the fritz.

Keeps asking he if I want some.
I give in, the idea of our tongues hooking onto the same straw
Slurping up the same brownish slush
Makes me warm.

I know it shouldn't,
that it's wrong to feel this way.

Back to the question,
"You mean like James Street?"
I answer, laugh
Then regret it.
He gets embarrassed
When I point out silly things he says.

He thinks I'm smarter than him.
He's too brilliant for that to be true.
He smiles and turns away his face,
Shyness, feigned or maybe not,
"I should have known that."

We go there now, that place it feels like I've been to hundreds of times with him
But realistically it's probably a few dozen at most.

I tell him it's alright, stop blushing.
So here we are, where we used to sit in a summer long past
I thought I could be with him forever,
Deep and premature infatuation
Though still lingering and creeping back into my fore-mind at the worst times

I feel that something's crept back into his as well.
He's acting nervous,
Keeps saying things and getting embarrassed for no reason.

My chest empties,
I think two years ago
I'd be happier with this.
But it's now.

When I'm home I drift to sleep with one question swimming in my head--
How many people can you love at once?

Your hands feel the cold stone
of this textured tower wall. You look up
and see an arched, hollow window gaping
like a moaning train tunnel, darker inside
than the moonless night sky.
Instead of a door there flutters a rose petal,
dry, crispy, impaled on a thorn
that succumbs and disintegrates into the cold wind,
leaving the skeleton of the thorn bush
without its last memory of sunrise.

This chilly autumn air pierces the bridge of your nose
as you turn your hooded head away and take a muddy step
back toward the woods you braved through
on this chilly, moonless autumn night.
As the impending fog before you thickens
the last touch of almost starry night disappears
with the resounding click of a tower door in the distance
that never existed on this chilly, moonless autumn night.


[First draft]
Your hands feel the cold stone
of this textured tower wall. You look up
and see an arched, hollow window gaping
like a moaning train tunnel, darker inside
than the moonless night sky. This chilly autumn air
pierces the bridge of your nose as you turn
your hooded head away and take a muddy step
back toward the woods you braved through
in this chilly, moonless autumn night.
As the impending fog before you thickens
the last touch of almost starry night disappears
behind the rolling black clouds.

Even the dry, crispy rose petal impaled on a thorn
succumbs and disintegrates into the cold wind,
leaving what’s left of the thorn bush
without its last memory of sunrise.

The new dawn is breaking
Into our home, into our room
Through our window to take you
Away, to take you away from me again,
To package you up in a suit and tie.
The light is invading our space
Illuminating your scruffy morning face
That I won’t see again for a little while.

I pretend that if I ask you to stay,
to stay for me, to stay with me here,
here where the smoothly flowing cold sea
of sheets between my fingers fail to fill
the spaces the way your warm hands do,
that you’ll assure me that you won’t be gone
for too long, that we’ll be together again soon,
that everything will be fine, right before you pull
your body away from me and let go of my hand
because I do not, will not let go of my own accord.

Even in my daydream you have to go.

In a way, you, my dear friends, are in the company of a ghost.
Why is this, you ask? Or perhaps you don’t ask,
perhaps you don’t care at all. If you’re expecting dripping ghostly green ectoplasm
or a white bed sheet with holes cut out for the eyes,
then you, my dear friends, have the wrong expectations. You are wrong, yet
are still in the company of a ghost. A ghost
holds on long after his time, longing for more time here with his dear friends to feel loving arms
around his neck, arms that are slipping, arms that shouldn’t let go, mustn’t let go, arms that continue
slipping, those arms are gliding off too quickly, too soon, those arms.
Those arms are gone.
Those arms are no longer holding
our dear friend. He cannot let go
because those once loving arms
have let me go.
This is why you, my dear friends,
are in the company of a ghost.