Paper

There are moments when I am flimsy
As a piece of paper—
Ghost white, disregarded, and smeared with the ink
Of past mistakes.
In these instances, I blow crazy in the breeze
And dance unfettered of bone and heart and muscle,
Until I land in a pothole, filled with yesterday’s rain,
And soak in it like a grimy baptismal.
Then the moment is over,
And days come like they always do:
Wake, shower, check the weather and fill the day
With tiny crises to make the enormity of the normality bearable.
But stuck between all the humdrum,
Squeezed in with all the bullshit and broken glass,
There is always the chance I will see you,
And remember the time, standing in the front yard,
You looked up and asked,
“So, are you going to kiss me now?”
Then you leave and once again
I turn into a piece of paper.

Thinking of You

There have been days, when all throughout my duties,
I do nothing but think of you.

It happens while I’m driving or brushing my teeth,
Or when I notice how the sun catches a falling leaf
And it makes the yellow and burnt orange flash like a siren of autumn.

On days like these, I wish I could paint.
I would place you on a canvas next to the
Notre Dame de Paris at midnight, with me
In your arms and the ghosts of Josephine and Napoleon
Dancing in love’s reunion,

But I cannot paint.
I cannot run 6 miles like you.
I cannot fly a jet, bench press twice my bodyweight, or
Take away your reservations about men.

I can only offer you a poem and promise:
That for all my shortcomings,
In everything that drives you away,
I promise to take yours with the patience of Job,
And have the jealousy of God—
Because like Him, I know that it would do you no good
To go looking for love in another,
Because ours would swallow an ocean before we let you drown.

They are only words, I know,
But often they are all I have on days like this,
When I can do nothing but think of you.