Stay, just a little bit longer.

It is 12:07AM and I am
listening to Dion’s cover
of “Dream Lover” and
writing about graveyards.

Tell me in the future,
when I rake my fingers through my bangs,
have the pen behind my ear
and the desk light focused on the manuscript,
you’ll join me in the study,

Tell me
you’ll sing
“I want a dream lover,
so I don’t have to dream alone.”

Tell me
you’ll come up behind me,
kiss my head
and then retreat to the couch
that sits in my secluded space.

That you won’t leave
when the well is running low.
That you will stay when the ink
on the quill has dried.

Promise me
that you’ll stay
even if the writing’s dark,
even if Johnny Mathis fills the space
meant for shadows.

Promise me
you’ll stay when the ghost take over the pages
and the heads roll between the lines.

Love me
because even though I write death scenes
on nights like these,
when the music is happy
and my fingers are crying,

I’m a simple girl
who lives for fairytales
and wants her own happy ending.

Your Eyes on Little Me

I’m excited
for when you become a dad.

This isn’t the normal break-up poem,
about how I would’ve been the perfect mom,
how our children
would be a reason for staying together all this time,
or a way to make-up for “never getting over”
you,

because I have.

But “Next to You” is playing
and I’m feeling nostalgic.

So let me say that I’m excited
you’d be the father
that lets his child believe
they can fly.
You’ll be the daddy
his little girl comes running to,
the one she’ll want the love of her life to be modeled after.

Promise me
you’ll never lose that light in your eyes
and the laugh
that shakes a whole room.
Promise me
you’ll tell them
all the good and bad things
and you’ll recall with clarity
the moments that made you,
you,
for them,
to them.

It’ll take time,
but when I see a dad charging toward his kid
like a plane,
I’ll see you.
And when I see a child
laughing,
it’ll sound like you.

We grew apart,
but promise me,
you’ll never grow up.

Paraphrasing Eleanor Roosevelt

There is something beautiful,
something breaking open
at the thought of
my ability to believe
in you
with no questions asked.

There was something so soft
in the way I knew you’d achieve
all your dreams, one day;
even if I wasn’t there to see them.

I pass by tshirts
and posters and trinkets
and everything reminds me
of moments never shared,

and it all is still so
beautiful,
that I am still so soft,
even with my stitching;

your dreams are still attainable,
still reachable,
please believe me.

Future Realities

“Lovely”
like a stain on your lips
that doesn’t come from kisses.
Like the first ray of sunshine
that signals spring.
Like believing this life is not the end,
like hoping for bliss.
Like kindness.

“Lovely”
like a sugar rush.
Like constant laughter
running like light
through an open floor plan.
Like children falling to the floor,
rolling on their backs and giggling.
Like sanded furniture.
Like wild flowers,
fresh flowers
springing from every crevice.

“Lovely”
like silence,
like an honest promise,
one that’s kept.
Like moments where it is you
and God
and the birds singing on the window
ledge,
and maybe you’re in that townhouse
or that cottage
but you’re smiling easier
and in awe of the littlest of things
like the way ice cube press together,
share space with tea
with citrus
with everything that represents simplicity.

“Lovely”
like possibility.
Like this life you’re living,
like what the future could hold.

“Lovely”
like waking up
and realizing
this world
is your dream.

Gentleness

I crave
softness
in the same way
that I fear it.

Of wanting something
that feels like playing with my own hair
between two fingers,
but won’t slip away as easily.

For wanting patience
and the simplicity of
interlocked fingers
and eyes meeting across
the space of two feet,
sitting in the middle of a carpet,
knees pressed together.

I want a love
that I can study.
I want a love that
doesn’t fidget in the silence,
but let’s me take them in.

I want a love
with clothes on.
With smiles
and kisses that equally light
my body like a hearth.

And maybe this is best
that there is no current interest,
that I’m  happy with friendships
and the little moments
I can’t plan,
the adventures to be had,
and the people
who walk back into your life
as if days haven’t passed.

Maybe I am given a grace period
from the chaotic rush
of romance to discover
a greater want:
a desire for tenderness.

Sleepy Hallowed

Your fingers curl around mine
and we are drawing the curtains closed
together.
The soft touch of your palms
against the back of my hands,
the way my back leans against your chest
and you kiss my head and it’s
almost time for bed.
The room is dark except for candles
on the dresser,
the end tables,
and we find our respective
sides only to have our legs tangle under the covers.
We sigh against one another,
our breathing keeping time with the traffic outside.
The streetlights don’t stream through either
room darkening curtain or blinds
and I turn my face to kiss you,
to thank you
for peaceful nights,
curled into your side,
in a house on the fork,
falling asleep to the sounds of sleepy streets
and cars holding the kids
who can only find peace
in midnight drives.

When the “Best” Comes Pt. 1

It will be something simple like:
we will dance
in the kitchen,
and I’ll be cooking something edible.
And you will hold me from behind
still swaying to the music playing off
of whatever medium it comes through.
Our shoes will be kicked off
and the table will be set
and there will be a vase full of
lily of the valleys or hydrangeas
or peonies
and from the window,
light will stream in.
I will sit across from you
in our dining room,
we will join hands and
thank God for the food,
for this life,
for everything that aligned
just the way He wanted it, too.