I Drift in Directions Where You Aren’t

It’s been 5,533 days since your time clock stopped. 
I try not to think about your absence, 
but today’s your birthday,
which makes a difference.

You had 22,959 days, not a second more.

In the grand scheme, it isn’t much. 

It wasn’t enough. 

I want to celebrate your spirit, your heart,

the times we weren’t apart, 

but sometimes it’s too hard to remember the good 

when you’re not here anymore. 

I had 10,834 days with you,

but I’ve lived a third of my life

wondering what you’d think

about songs, music, movies, me, 

my successes, my failures, my sadness,

my joy, and everything in between.

I knew someday I’d have to live

without your advice or you reminding me

of who I can be, 

but I never thought it’d be before I was thirty.

Now I drift in directions

I hope will lead me the right way,

never quite sure of my footing

or my plans

or of who I am. 

I just keep going,

hoping someday

you can tell me I did okay

without you.

All that Remains

 If you pulled back the black velvet

draped heavily over my heart,

you'd find nothing but emptiness

surrounded by bone. 

If you dove into the darkest depths

of my mind's sea of memories,

there wouldn't be anything to see - 

just you all alone.

If you look close enough,

there's nothing here - 

just the shadow of what was

before life got in the way.

When There's No You

I believed, hoped even, 

that soon you'd get better, 

leave the sterile walls

of hospital rooms

behind. 

You did, 

but you left me, too.

It was morning

on a Monday

when the prepositions

I used in front of "you"

changed

from "with" to "without".

Who knew adding 3 letters

would ruin so much?

Who am I now

without you?

I still don't know

fourteen years later.

Our Last Drive

 
The hot evening wind whips your hair about
as your hide-the-eyes sunglasses block out the dust and sun.
You look like a Hollywood icon, or maybe some Bond girl on the run.

The top’s down on the midnight blue Miata you picked and paid for yourself
just in time for the Cancer to make you a passenger in yet another aspect of your life.

It’s been a long winter
with chemo, radiation, and heart palpitations that were really myocardial infarctions and a sign we didn’t have much time left.

We didn’t know it but that last drive was it – the last of a life with still too many days left unlived.
We swoosh around the curves like we’re riding waves
though we were always both too afraid to go out past the breakers.
The sand closer to shore always felt safer, even with jellyfish stings and crab claw toe pinches.

A dusty rose falls all around us as day gives way to night.
The mid-March humidity dissipates with the sunset and we hit a straightaway of smooth sailing.
No cars are ahead in the distance or in the rear view –
just our two high beams breaking up the fading light.

This road, this asphalt sea, is ours as the night rolls in behind us.
We miss our turn twice but keep on driving.
People are at the house waiting, but you’re not ready to turn around.
After all, the streetlights haven’t come on yet.

The darkness is a high tide rolling in above us as we sink beneath the surface in silence.
We know the road is going to end sooner than we expected or hoped.
We had no idea the next day this moment and you would be another memory in my mind to hold onto rather than  your tan, freckled hand with knobby knuckles and slender fingers I’d know anywhere.

We lose time as we drive along the back roads of our lives.

We don’t dare interrupt this moment where what will be and what has been don’t exist – just what is.

I steal a peek at you, huddled next to me, arms wrapped tight, holding yourself in one piece against the cooling air. I switch on the heat, redirect the blast to our feet so it isn’t lost in the night, and watch happiness spread across your lips, cheeks, your body as if you were standing in the bright warmth of a high noon, deep south July sun.

This snapshot of you lives in perfect polaroid detail in my memory palace among the many shrines I’ve built to you.

Eventually, we make our way back home, and though we didn’t know you were leaving the next day, we both knew the second we locked blue-eye-to-blue-grey-eye there would be no more top-down drives in our future.

Sometimes I can still feel the hum in my bones of the tires meeting the road, riding into darkness like we did so many years ago – you sitting by my side, forever glamorous in sunburst yellow and leopard print.

I’ll never know what it’s like to live so loudly without ever saying a word.

We Live Twice

 Egyptians believed we died twice.

First, our bodies withered into dust

and nourished the spaces around us.  

Then, our spirits slipped away
when others stopped saying our names.

I believe we live twice. 

Once until our hearts stop.

And once until our memories are lost - 

not just our names, not just our legacies,

but the rooms of our loved ones' memory palaces

we reside in until oblivion.

When we are no longer remembered,

we are no more.

It may seem the same - 

living and dying with the grave

and your name.

But it isn't - 

it'll never be about how you die.

It's about your life,

and how you lived it.

May your second life

be immortal.

Burning Out

No one sees how dark it is

because I turn on every light

when they come around

like this is how I live

the minutes in my life. 

It's easier to put on a show

than lie to make them feel

better

safe

or like we're all okay.

I'd rather pretend,

make it seem okay

than say the words out loud.

The lies are always easiest

to believe, to hear

but never to tell.

The truth is

the lights are burning out

one-by-one,

and soon

you'll see

what it's like for me.

Was It Real?

Do you carry me with you

in your memory palace,

or am I lost in the sea of thoughts

you refuse to think again?

I believed I mattered to you,

that 23 years meant something

and you couldn't do to me

what you did to everyone else.

But it's been almost 4 years

since I've heard your laugh,

your excitement about new projects,

your worries about problems

you helped create.

Did I imagine it?

The heartache reminds me

it was real

even if you try to pretend

it wasn't.

I was there.

I remember.

Do you?

In Another Time

I had a dream

we were together,

laughing and smiling

in ways we never did.

Maybe that's us

in another world,

a parallel universe

where being together

created positivity

instead of the toxicity

we lived.

I hope so.

It gives me peace

to believe

somewhere,

in some other time

and place, 

I'm happy

and loved.

Moments

I counted the days

you were here

and it was only 3 months more

than her - 

29 years just the same

and never enough either way. 

I don't know

why you had to leave

or where you went

but I hope

I'll see you again.

If not in this life,

in the next.

Two of my favorite souls

slipped through my fingers

like the wind,

wispy sighs no one

can touch

or hold.

I imagine

every whisk and whirl

is your arms

wrapping around

my shoulders

like all the hugs

I'll never have again. 

And for a moment,

a breath,

there is nothing but love.

Thirty-Two Minutes

Our footsteps crunch on the sand-covered cement
as you shove your calloused fingers deep into the folds of your pants,
hiding in safety from the chance of touching my side.
We walk straight to where the road bends to the right.

The embers burn orange at the end of your cigarette as you take another drag in silence. 
Only your teeth brim the velvet darkness from a moonlit sky.

An unseen creature runs in front of our footsteps.

We feel him for a moment before he scampers off to the left.

My eyes wander up to the diamond sky as it winks and twinkles at us with mischief

like there's something else going on but we missed it.  

The crisp air clears my sinuses like a mint and I feel the sticky salt air cling to my skin.

I focus on the words suddenly falling out of your mouth, 
letting the syllables take shape in my brain. 

Before I know it, my watch tells me thirty-two minutes have gone by

since you told me I was the one you'd looked for all your life.

I ask myself, "why thirty-two minutes ago was so different

from all the thirty-two minutes of the five years you've let go?"

I keep waiting for the cocoons to hatch in my stomach again, 

for the familiar butterflies to emerge and begin their flight

like they have ever since the moment we met.

But nothing happens. 

I listen to see if the world has stopped spinning – if time has stilled –

and wait as you speak of "when" and "until" as if I haven't said those words

so many times before, losing battles to you but still keep fighting the war

so you’ll stay in my life as something, anything, hoping this winter will lead to a spring.

And now you're waving the white flag at me telling me that you finally see I am the one?

Again you say I am the woman of your dreams like I’m not reacting the way you imagined.

I hear you. I'm listening, but something is wrong,

and I see that the moment is gone like all the years before it went – silent.

I know you better than you’ve ever known me and though you’re saying the words

I’ve wanted to hear for hours, days, months, years,

they’re just letters strung together with no evidence to prove you feel what you say you do. 

Maybe it’s not what you expected but finally, I get it –
Underneath this ebony sky another day is going by like every other day we’ve lived –

both together and apart –

and I see that thirty-two minutes have passed since the dream of us became a part of our past.

Your loneliness led you here, not your heart,

and if I was really the girl you’ve dreamed of your whole life,

you would’ve known at seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, or even twenty

like you do now at twenty-one.

I’m not your fantasy.

I never have been –

I’m just the one person still standing in the wreckage you’ve made of your life

and what you said thirty-two minutes ago doesn’t disguise the reality we live in.

We’ll be friends until we know better.

Life in Color

I saw my forever in your hazel eyes –

something I never thought I’d want:

picket fences, kids on hips,

Dutch oven dinners with friends,

listening every night to you tune your guitar,

easy living in the suburbs near your parents. 

Life in muted color. 

I stood by you and waited

for the moment you’d see your forever in me.

I never became your lover

and we were never really friends.

I was just a fan you used to feel better

about the life you never made happen.

You burnt me to the ground as a proxy

for your hate every time you weren’t the man

you should’ve been, but the only person

standing in your way was always you.

My forever faded in the rear view

as life came into focus

with all its ugliness and vibrant pain.

We collided into others but never each other –

I thought our moment was over

but you knew it had never begun.

Time has washed you away,

but the memory of what was

and what could’ve been lingers still.

The colors shine brightly now –

maybe they always did

and I just couldn’t see life beyond you.

Ordinary

You have a gift

but it's not what you think.

It isn't the talent

in your hands

or your mind

that makes you unique. 

It is your ego,

your bravado

and all the ways

you shut out the voices

who try 

to make you better. 

If only you would listen,

your myopic vision

could expand

beyond the horizon

of desperation

you have set.

But perfection

can't be improved.

You aren't a first draft,

you're the printed copy.

Don't we all see

it's us, 

not you, right?

How many more 

will you go through

before you see

you are the only variable

connecting everyone?

I smile as you move on

to another

and then another

because the truth is

even your insecurity

isn't original.

Hypocrite

You slam everyone 
who stands by 
and acts as an observer 
to the wreck you've made 
of your life,
like rubberneckers 
on a highway 
passing a four-car pile-up 
as if you have always 
taken part 
in the lives 
around you. 

Where were you 
when it all fell apart 
for me 
and I begged you 
to just spend 
a minute in it with me?

You were sitting 
judge and jury 
like you understood 
my pain and fury — 
something you still don’t get — 
not yet. 

I hope you never do. 

You watched 
my world 
collapse 
and then wondered 
why I was mad 
you never came around. 

I always had to come to you, 
no matter what 
I was going through — 
drive across town, 
fly across country, 
make it happen 
even when I didn’t want to. 

It’s always about you — 
who did you wrong, 
who did you right, 
who you wish would do you again, 
your dreams you chase, 
the goals you make, 
the life you are or aren’t living. 

I have stood by, 
silent all these years, 
supporting and forging
my way forward,
waiting for you to get it, 
to see I am here 
as your friend and equal,
not your cheerleader or servant. 

But you don’t get it. 
Maybe you never will. 

So, you’re right — 
fuck the spectators. 

Supernova

Your words fall out
of your mouth like black tar;
they are cyanide, an instant death,
to my fragile heart.

You throw hatred at me
like Molotov cocktails,
setting fire to my love
as every breath fails.

You burn me to the ground
with all of your lies and secrets;
and you smile as I disappear,
like you have no regrets.

The wind picks up my ashes
and whisks me away,
holds me tight in the night sky
and keeps me safe.

The stars collect my pieces,
the dust you made of me,
and they put me back together,
held in place by gravity.
They breathe light into my soul,
illuminating me;
you didn't win and I am finally
who I was meant to be.

Invisible

I speak
on a frequency
you can't hear
so I speak
louder
until my voice
disappears.

I raise my hand
but you never call
on me
like I'm imaginary,
a blind spot
no one can see.

I'm not here.
I don't exist.
I'm just a memory
though I'm standing
right here.

Someday
you won't even remember
my name.
Today
you don't remember
me.

Criminal

I sit stunned,

like your words

are a taser gun

on full blast,

hitting my skin,

my lips,

my brain

in one angry jolt.

I play them again

and the epiphany

blooms like a violet.

I cannot move,

think,

or speak

as I listen

to you rewrite

history

I witnessed.

I was there. 

I know what happened. 

Don't I?

But now

you reveal

the last piece, 

like a puzzle thief

holding out

until the end -

keeping the victory

in your back pocket

so no one else

could have the glory.

I saw only two sides

of the story

I lived

but I didn't see

you,

the masked man

hiding the truth

behind the door.

 

Your side

stayed in the shade

like a shadow

lurking,

waiting 

for the sun 

to fade

and hoping the moon

didn't out you.

But I see you. 

Now my eyes

are open

and clear

with the Visine

of the truth

you speak.

You're in HD,

4K Ultra,

bright as daylight. 

You're a criminal

playing dress up

as a gentleman

who never had

anyone's interests

at heart but his own.

I should've known.

Freedom Cry

If your words
were fists,
I’d be black
and blue.

I wouldn’t
really exist;
I’d be nothing
but walking
scar tissue.

But then maybe
you’d see
all the damage
you’ve done to me,
and the world
would finally
see it too.

Until then,
I could pretend
they are
a string of syllables
falling out your mouth,
nothing sensible
anyone can make out;
nothing that can hurt
or denounce
or discriminate
or sound
like hate -

just utterances
of love,
of what was,
of being enough,
and all the other stuff
you are too tough
to say.

Now it’s too late.

No one knows
what you did.
Only my memory
of it exists.
Only I am the one
who has to live
with it,
and the shadows
and the scars
you left.

But I am
still here,
and there is
only one thing
I know for sure:

you can’t hurt me
anymore.

Knowledge Is Power

I remember the phone call

from twenty years ago;

not the text

as much as the tone. 

I still don't know

why your rage

overflowed

onto me like hot lava.

We were just friends.

You'd said it over

and over

and over again. 

Then, 

in one random conversation,

we were nothing. 

What had I done? 

I still don't know. 

I have suspicions,

but what's done is done.

Time spun 

us out

in different directions,

like two tops

once together,

now apart.

But the years

brought you back

around

like clockwork,

and I opened the door,

hoping to get answers.

I never got them,

but we became friends.

Again. 

It was tentative.

Growing up

had made us both

sensitive

to words

and sentence currents,

the undertones

and underbellies

of emotions.

Words became

syllables

instead of meaningful

conversation,

and what was

never became

the love

we were both

looking for. 

Promises got lost

in the shuffle of life

and one wounded heart

urged a wandering eye,

while the other wounded heart

let it all die. 

I'd rather be alone

than afraid of loneliness.

I'd rather not know

than feel like I'm less

than who you expected.

You moved on.

Again.

I haven't. 

I'm still the same,

still without answers. 

So many words

have passed

between our lips.

So many questions

still exist.

What could've been

never was,

but I don't think

it would've been 

enough.

Our memories

still make me smile,

especially the quote wars

and how we laughed

until we cried,

but you went your way

and I have gone mine,

and you're the only one

who knows why.

Maybe someday

I'll know too.

 

Talk Therapy

I saw a man

about the darkness

in my heart. 

I felt it

seeping into me

like black tar.

It comes around

when things go south,

and I stop

wanting to play my part.

I didn't want to talk.

I didn't want help. 

I wanted to disappear.

I wanted to fly,

but I didn't have wings - 

not that I cared if I fell.

I had no fear,

which scared me

the most

and led me

to the chair

in front of him. 

We all fall. 

Eventually.

But all the tears

I cried

told me

this was different.

I wasn't ready for it.

He said, "It's good to want things".

He listened. 

He saw the pain, 

but he didn't try

to take it away. 

He said, "It's okay to feel how you feel."

He believed me

without lengthy explanations.

He made connections

I didn't have to map out.

He understood

what this was all about. 

Then, the magic happened. 

He said,"Grief comes from love."

And like a blink of an eye,

the darkness lost the war.

A Personality Disordered

Seven days
on Depakote
and I didn't know
myself
or anyone else
anymore.

I was a stranger
in the mirror,
a phantom
in my skin,
a lost cause
no one wanted
to find.

Benzos and Lamictal
make me predictable,
but charged up
like a battery
looking for a fight,
or like lightning
waiting to strike -
but I never do.

I just keep waiting.

Three pills at night
help me sleep,
but sometimes
I dream
bad things
are coming for me.

Maybe those aren't dreams.
They could be memories.

Anyone who'd know
is dead and gone,
so I keep hoping
they're not real,
I'm not real.

High-strung,
too sensitive,
moody,
impulsive,
depressed,
aggressive -
negative words
attached to me,
etched into my brain
like a tattoo.

You assign a label,
then two,
and soon
I need a different kind
of doctor
to do what you do.

How far does it go?
When does it end?

I flush
all the pills
and start again.

Sometimes, a mood
is just a mood.