Memoria

When He asked why it takes you two at least two hours to decide on a suitable meal,

I wanted to crawl under His skin and pretend like His relationship with Her was ours.

I wanted to quit crying and stop staring at the bar wishing to find your long lost shadow along its insides.

But I’ve drank too much here since you left to pretend like I didn’t have enough.

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Textures Of Fruit

My last breath tasted like apricots.

As my heart flutters its last effort to fight for life, to fight for you – I wish that It stops before aftertaste forms.

I’m curious though…

Would apricots and death satisfy the dark, twisting roots of my character?

 

Will You Marry Me?

Here we are, my love.

I have set the small round table –

One candle and a pot plant with a card that reads:

P.S. I hope all your dates fail.

The night is perfect, the small fire we made has grown

The waves are still tonight and its grandeur does not frighten me.

No.

There are more terrifying possibilities.

There’s a three-part ring in my shirt pocket and I can’t stop shaking.

“Can you believe it’s been three years?”

Cupid crushes my right knee and I pray to the gods that I say it all right.

“Will you marry me?”

” I know you don’t believe in this – I just want you to believe in me.”

“I love you, will you grow grey with me?”

But the ocean and your scent are all in my head

There’s only toothpaste smell around us and I can barely breathe.

There’s still a three-piece ring in my shirt pocket

But we didn’t make it to three years.

Your tooth-brush will be going back home with you;

and you will never know that every time we brushed our teeth I imagined myself on that giant rock at the beach – asking for eternity with you,

as many times as it took for you to say yes.

 

To The Man With Winter In His Hair

This evening I sit upright at the humble desk in my sister’s office.

Keeping good posture seems colossally easier ;

now that Atlas is no longer a title I cling to.

 

I hold a silver pen in my palm;

it writes my sadness on the lips that press against its cold exterior.

Cold…though not lifeless.

I remember the fingers that placed it on my notebook –

they belong to a man who towered over me like a titan;

sounds like one too – with winter in his hair and an embrace I find myself missing on evenings when a neighbor’s kitchen greets me with memories of slow-cooked chicken.

He wasn’t my father –

even if I wished he would be someone I could feel safe being around,

and for a time…

He was.

 

The visualization of his hands places a plum in my throat;

A karmic gift for hurting his kin;

Atlas is lurking around the bend of my conscience:

To have loved so infinitely

To have caused pain in much the same way.

 

Tomorrow I will build a box for this pen,

I will wrap the pen in linen and immortalize its past,

glorious life.

Perhaps the steel body will remind me –

That winter;

warms hearts when seeing the man who wears it;

smile at his daughter.