Forgive me I’m Singing
The praises of a stolen night
How your lips burned in spite
Of January’s lonely chill
When bottled eyes began to spill

Forgive me I’m caught
In the calm of sea glass eyes
Steam that slowly will rise
Your kiss, the cooking moon
Sometime in late June

Forgive me I’m staring
I can’t bring myself to stop
As hand in hand we window shop
Dancing under the harvest moon
Winter’s come too soon

I am half of you.
Right?
You are 23 of my original 46 chromosomes
Yet,
I barely know you.
But that’s a two way street.
While your second marriage is failing and my relationship is thriving
And I might be drinking a little too much and you might be earning not enough
I have late Friday nights while you are...
Wait.
I don’t know what you’re doing.
My bright blue eyes reflect nothing of your dark chocolate brown
The only thing we seem to have in common is our reputation of being
The tallest in the room.
Dad, I’m growing up.
And it’s not my height this time.
You have always been a man of few words
Well, I’m just the opposite.
I wish we could sit down and pour our hearts out
I want to understand what goes through that forty-seven year old mind of yours
I want to know what sprouted those gray hairs on your head and
How high school changed your life
I want love advice
Tell me funny stories about all the wonderful mistakes you made
As long as you don’t mention the one
Where you forgot to speak to your daughter.

You
aren’t
worth
a piece
of
paper

that bring those lemon slices back to my tea
which never quite appealed to you.
Once in a fair while, as you sit whistling that tune,
hoping I'd be smirking,
I'd hum loudly. Out of key. And tastelessly.
So consumed in your troubles,
the beer bottles, wines, tabs that are hardly tipped,
the wink in your hypocrisy kissed my pride.
I flinch now. These days have made me flinch.
Gratifyingly so, your fingers are louder than
your lips.
I do not know the taste of your lips.
No one kisses on Tuesdays.
Maybe Wednesday, but we never see each other
then.

Picture this:
I'm walking on the boardwalk
In New Orleans
On Christmas Eve
I've got
Nikes on my feet
Beignets in my hand
Smartphone in my pocket
The memory of my mum handing a 20 to a funny street magician
And a really nice home to visit in
When I pass a group of the homeless
Five or six or so, and they're all talking
Half have signs asking for help
As I pass by, one man, not too old and quite young in fact
This man, he looks up, sharpie etched cardboard in hand
Knees drawn to chest
Hair touseld, generally disheveled appearance
Our eyes lock and he says
In the most meaningful and sincere way possile
Have a very Merry Christmas
By instinct, I flash a smile
And then I hope he noticed
And hope he knew I meant it.
I felt so quietly sober afterwards
Walking in complete meditiation
On those five words
The man had so little
And yet he gave me a wish

For a moment I was Cruella DeVille.
****
         Sultry
                    Sophisticated.
This time is wasn't your scent that lingered
In my hair,
                  on my clothes,
                                          on my breath.
I left it there.
I want you to notice,
                                   to comment,
                                                        ­ to realize
that you have no power over me.
Not now.
You can, but you won't.
Not now.
Perhaps later when your bitterness doesn't envelop me,
Like now.
At least this cigar isn't bitter.
In fact, it's sweet.

The boys, the boys, they can't help but stare at her
as she's talking, she's walking in iambic pentameter

She breathes in italics
Words fall from her lips
San-serif movements
Punctuate her hips

She writes, she paints, her dreams soak the paper
such beauty, such beauty, my willpower waivers

Her eyes tell a story
in which I want to belong
Only she knows the ending
as she has all along

I wish, I want, a new story to start
with her, with her, with all of my heart