I wish I had heard something

The words you didn’t say to me
Sounded like
The most beautiful poem
Ever written

little blurbs

when the song ends

slowly i will forget you. The soft sound that loudly embraced love like no other. the music you played me. The music you were. the songs you liked that i listened to because i loved. the songs we shared. i will forget what your voice sounds like when its singing me to sleep. i will forget because otherwise i will imagine it. i will know it is away from me.


today and those that follow

I am obsessed

with the details of today.

I thought it over and I’m thinking it over and I believe I understand

the implications of my actions and the thought behind yours.

I love being the love

the care of your day on a series of days when you desperately need it,

but especially on days when it’s just the frosting

on something that is already okay.

I can do that, I think.

I can be there, I believe.

I will be better than what you expect of me.

Not exactly what you want me to be

but beyond anything that was so clearly

a perfect match.

to smile when you see me–

that is enough

to be dangerously what I lust


A one way love,

or a two way dependency that continues down

becoming a small, stealthy,

pathway to being distraught

that we so failed to recognize because

we were wandering and did not ask to end up on this path.

I just thought that waking up this morning

and having my love lie in my arms,

kissing your cheek indefinitely,

meant no direction was needed:

if everything was inevitable

if it all led to this.



(I placed you in my bed, but it was not to sleep.

I expected you to stay, but you thought it best to leave

for something else, but still, with a part of me.)

I lied by you in bed but I did not know

that being asleep is something you preferred to being woke

-n but my noises, however bittersweet,

they were unexpected.

“like a truck,” you said

unlike the ebbs of the earth, you suggest

“it surprises me,” you claim.

I guess it’s true — you did not ever wake up

to see me breathing on Sunday morning

or to hear me speak all but sweet nothings,

and I suppose now is the time

–I know– it is bedtime

for more than I’ll care to admit (at all times).