I don’t wish them to be,
but I welcome the scuffs
and stains and scratches
on beloved items in my home.

My writing shrinks, cramps,
slants like a sailboat
tipping in the wind

I don’t want to put 5
more cents in the meter
just to hear you lie again

They say there are two sides 
to every story, but I think 
it’s more like a Rubik’s cube.

Beach walk debating
when soul enters the body
at heartbeat or birth

I dreamt we were in a plane crash
but we didn’t die
The pilot announced halfway to doom
that he wouldn’t give up

Last week was
our Indian summer

when I chose to
believe you were true

You’ve stuck me in this
maybe

halfway between believing you
but believing myself more

How strange it is to be with someone,
to hold each other tightly,

to feel safe in his arms and

the ease of home when I see him,

You’re on something.
Tonight. Now. Again.
You think I can’t tell.
You think you’re hiding it.

In the sea of moments that made up our
two days - or two hours or two lifetimes,
it’s hard to say what time passed -

Your infinity is music.
Mine is moving mountains,

making miracles, 

for the ones I love.

I don’t like calling you that.
So I “forget” sometimes.
Or assume people will know what I mean.

For a year I’ve been telling you there’s a lifeline, love.
It’s laying right beside you, well within reach.

We wade in icy water to our chests,
playing hookey from routine,

sun setting behind you in shades
I’ve only seen in expensive paint.

I sketch my plans in pencil with one hand,
fat pink eraser ready in the other.

People wonder aloud why I don’t use a pen.

You poked holes in my heart -
the heart decidedly not on display,
the heart closed for renovations,

Your silence created a chasm
so wide and deep it swallowed
the earth around it for miles.

When my thoughts happen on this summer,
veer off at your 80th birthday,
stop on the image of you,

I have no words, but
an avalanche of rage stopped
short of chapped lips. Stuck