When the “Door” Shuts

So the boy
you loved three years ago,
cried two years OVER,
finally is in a relationship again.

And you cry,
before you remember

this is the same boy
who told you not to dance in your seat,
who smiled when he dimmed the happiness in your eyes,
who left,
who GHOSTED—

So the boy
you LOVED three years ago,
maybe never stopped wanting
in some way, shape, or form,
is finally in a relationship again

and you spend the next five hours on YouTube
dancing in your seat,
and this time, it only takes 300 minutes
rather than 730 days
before you’re smiling again.

It’s a Given

It’s got to be summer.
The windows are down.
“Chicken Fried”
or “Brown Eyed Girl”
or something that is
irrevocably
warm, wind-in-air
plastered smiles,
hands raised through a
sun roof
good
is playing off the radio.

This is my version,
so we’re driving down the Causeway.
And the reeds are whipping
to and fro
and your fingers are locked with mine
hand is raised to your lips,
because you know I like that.
And you let me sing,
you smile when I dance in the passenger seat.

We hit the bridge
the same time as the chorus.
I look out over the river
I’ve grown up
and around
and between from
and thank God for the marshland.
Thank God for the tiny hometown
where I spent summers feeding ducks,
writing on the porch swing,
letting the sun kiss me in all the places
you will touch so tenderly.

And when we reach the curb at my mom-mom’s,
you walk around the car,
open my door
and start singing to me,
as I lead you down the street,
past my church,
holding your hand,
taking you through my childhood,
enjoying a summer day,
realizing love can be
warm, no traffic,
fireflies at the first sign of dusk,
laughter in the
moon light
good.

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.

This is How I Love You

And this is how our hearts beat:
Calypso,
pull me under Gulf of Mexico;
Staccato pulses and rum fueled rhythm.

And this is how the blood rushes:
Classical,
Mozart smiling &
Vivaldi clapping &
Beethoven begging for crescendo.

This is how our fists curl:
Thunder,
roll me over, lightning weaver,
shadows reflecting fear over both
the hills & the valleys:
hurricane & tremors.

But this, this is how time stops:
Soft,
rain water,
lips meeting lips 
like drops kissing tin
roofs—-
I am a fortress you always 
break me down.

I’m Alive

You made my pulse
race in the tune
of Vivaldi’s
“Four Seasons”.
And I don’t mean
just the movements
of
“Summer” &
“Spring”.

My blood hasn’t boiled since.
I have watched myself shrivel up,
without your musical touch.
I have let my soul shrink with silence.

I will let you serenade me once more, even if it’s with “Killing Me Softly.”
You, alone, were the reason my body
thrummed with symphonies.

Discord and Harmony

I am a body made up of rhythm
turmoil
tightness
waiting to be danced upon
bandaged
and opened up.

You are a sliver of a man.

I need to stop waiting
for our blood to rush in time.
I need to stop caressing every single mark
you left upon my thighs
and remember that my chaos
was beautiful
was out of control
solely without your help.

I am a tornado,
so why did you try to sweep me up
knowing I would suck you right back in?

Tell me then,
that lullabies are just synonyms
put to melody
for the things we tell ourselves
when we are hoping for sleep.
For the nights our bones feel like
breaking 
for lack of others warmth;
we call this a 
“freeze”.

You said i had a chip on my shoulder;
if you were fire,
why haven’t I thawed by now?

Tell me of the music 
in my muscles,
that the symphonies I screamed
were always your favorite.
Remember how your fingers raced along my spine,
plucking between each vertebrae like harp
remember that I never missed my mark.

I was always meant to fill a part.

Tell me when the act
is over
where will our memory go?
Tell me that the quiet
won’t feel like opened wound,
that my mess will make up
hallelujah chorus,
you’ll pull out each Easter,
ready to be committed to something
that fills the void.
Religion wraps you up
when your bed turns cold.

Tell me
how you’ll fix
my mess;
mend each touch
that I left
each caress against your skin 
until it appears like braille;
the blind run their fingers down the length of you
and read love.
You called me natural disaster,
and walk home every night into a apartment
flooded over with the memory of “we”.

My body no longer makes melody.

You watch out your window
and notice how the rain makes streams.

Our blood rushes at memory,
and somewhere,
our veins glow;
our pulses 
finally in sync.