Under Your Umbrella

8/27

Quietly and unexpectedly,
you approached me like the silent calm
before a storm, unassuming, with
a brace on your left leg, a slight limp
to your walk disguising the
elaborate choreography of your body.
You caught me in my rainy season,
in the pause between deluges,
and handed me your umbrella to
ward off the oncoming clouds.
But the clouds you brought behind you
had already broken, as I broke over
your silent calm, and your silent calm
poured over me,
the umbrella laying needless at my door
as I took your hand and guided you inside.

For R--, Sleeping Beside Me:

8/25

You kissed me on the threshold of the
bedroom closet of my new apartment;
Taking a break from sorting through ties
and vests and old button-up shirts,
the vestiges of past identities and
the only things I packed that carried
any weight - along with my dog
and my heartache.
We met, open-mouthed, our bodies
about-to-touch, our tongues poised
to drink in each other's language,
in that just-before moment between
the giving and the receiving, the intertwining,
the yes-and-no of our futures,
that liminal space we occupy,
while our eyes dance circles around one another,
my hand taking in the nape of your neck,
and our bodies colliding in the
quiet space of our transitions
and our transcendences.

The Space Between

Written 10/18/2010:


You brought me here, to white-washed walls
To the place where the space between
People becomes the space between words
Becomes the space between particles
Becomes the space between water
And the inhale of breath before the
Exhale of speaking becomes the inhale
Of wind before the exhale of leaves
Becomes the breath of God.

Last Night

I often wonder why I find inspiration in nights of enigmatic torment,
choleric clouds and relentless rain promising bucolic scenes during our
morning walk after the sun rises. Strange, how some time between the driving,
pelting storm, and that subtle morning ritual with you and our dog
could hypnotize me with such dramatic force.

*

Sometime in between my anger and sadness
you crept around the corner, clutching your pillow
and the stuffed animal I bought you for your birthday -
the stuffed animal you used to own as a child.
You resemble a child now, and my anger dissolves,
and the world disappears, as your puffy eyes and
haltering voice tell me, "I had a bad dream,"
And all I can do is hold you. And I do,
and you will never know to the extent you saved
me from the darkness I created for myself,
Or the providence I find in you, when every touch
and glance is a small miracle to me.

Late Nights.

I sat up late gazing into the shadows of horror stories,
dark novels, and films noir. Chasing the shadows of my former
selves, to learn their secrets, feeling that such black magic
required the incantations of artists' minds darker than my own.
All too soon I realize how much I only want to run from
those spectres of my past, and hide them in the darkness of these pages.
But then the magic is gone, or at least eludes me until I allow
myself to find all the pieces that need picking up, face my selves,
and find some way to stop the pain from bleeding out again.

*

Sometimes I envision you as you said you once were,
Roaming the halls of your childhood home with a candle
placed Romantically in a holder you grasp like a teacup.
Grown now, these images still play in my mind,
until it's the both of us in the halls of our own home,
Reading Keats and Shelley to one another by candlelight
over cups of Earl Grey tea.

*

Sometimes I sit beside you and see more than a
reflection of me in your eyes. Sometimes I see
my self, or part of me, held captive safely in your
heart, swimming in the mystical blue sea of your
irises - the sea that holds my future.

*

Sometimes I forget that age exists between us.
Sometimes I remember how young you are.
Sometimes I forget how young I am.

*

And Sometimes I wish loving you were less painful.

Happy Mother's Day

five years ago we celebrated a mother's day with you
not knowing it was the last time we could congratulate you
on raising the three of us so well. At least, officially.
I know I said it so many times those last few minutes
before you left us, standing around you, singing songs,
and holding hands. But sometimes
on days like this, when people celebrate those like you,
or like the you you were when you were here, it just seems
important enough to write down again, for eyes and ears
other than yours to read.
Happy mother's day, then, to all of my fond memories
of you.

longing gazes

We found those longing gazes finally,
blowing kisses through the windowpane
of the entryway outside the apartment where
we live, together. And even though we haven't
replaced the carpet, or bought that new
air conditioning unit, or steam-cleaned the upholstery
or the million things we've listed that
we say we need to do to feel at home here,
gazing at you has been home for me;
and when you're away, all I can do is
anxiously await the next moment
when you're beautiful face
enters my field of vision, in this apartment
that I call home simply because you're here.