Saturday, January 10, 2015

in the first degree

first glance
first kiss
first touch
first chance

Where does love go if it does not die?
If it never fizzles, fractures, or morphs into something ugly?
If it is not burned at the stake or strangled empty of all its good intentions?
If two people choose to walk away from a worthy thing because love is not enough?

Where does love go when we are simply…

Will my lost love be shunted into a bank of unclaimed property, collecting dust until something triggers memory of its existence?
Will my saved love burn holes in my pockets and trickle out the bottoms until I have nothing left to give?
Or will I give it away too freely to underserving beneficiaries, uneducated of its value?
Will my quiet love find peace in another heart, in another town?
Will I bury it within my body, only until I explode with the madness of missed possibility?
Will I rest it on a shelf, high above arms reach, so that I can see but cannot touch?
(Please, God) Will this love fade into something more tolerable?
Or will it become impossible to say his name without resentment?

I am quite sure that love like this cannot die of natural causes.

No, love like this must be murdered. 

Monday, December 22, 2014


It's my first day at work and this young girl is an eager stranger
yet something unnerving clouds our introduction and all I can remember is her mouth.

Her mouth with the corners that turn down in a way that makes my stomach sour
even though she has a pretty smile.

A pretty smile, with full lips and straight, white teeth, unaware that its particular phenotype only reminds me of another mouth on another girl.

Another girl who used to be my friend with another mouth that used to laugh with me
and share wine and secrets and shadows.

Shadows now hang low over my brow as I try and focus on her questions
though all I hear is the blurred sound of air pushed through that mouth.

That mouth of a stranger that makes me want to slap her for being such a hypocrite
with the laughing and the wine and the secrets.

The secrets that she didn't tell with her mouth turned down were actually the most telling
...but this young girl is just an eager intern and it is only my first day at work.

Sunday, August 24, 2014

Mr. Sandman

but for a thin, deceitful fraction of time, in the disconcerting wake between the things you want and the things you have, I believed he was there, lying in bed with me

wake up

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Or Bust

The elephant in the room has walked out. 

I've been writing this blog for about a year and a half now. On quiet afternoons, I like to flip back through the pages and see how the manuscript changed. How my own vision has progressed. What stories are still buried in drafts (or, worse, in memories). If you've read closely, you may have guessed that my prose of past and present are wholly intertwined; nevertheless, these bits are absolutely true as lived except for chronology. When it comes to the ghosts of men haunting these walls, there was S.B. (who could not be encouraged to speak the truth), there were "the in-betweens" - including Mike (who now finds it best to leave my messages unanswered) and my beautiful French chef (for whom stories are few but cloaked in mystery), and there is Jack. Humble, sweet Jack (with whom my heart is currently entangled in an impossible situation).

So, if you happen to stumble upon this house routinely, then you might soon find stories of "the afters" too. (Those are yet to be made.) My only hope is that I am not stuck in a loop already lived.

I'm done with the Midwest, for now.
Heading back to Texas.

Please please please, just help me untangle.

Thursday, July 24, 2014

What might have been?

I guess that's what I wanted to say.
That I thought we really had something here. That's all.
Me too.

So now it is I who should forgive the sweet liar (for no such optimism should go unpunished).


He still tells me he loves me every morning
and as I emerge from a haze of restless dreams
I often wonder if, with each passing day, in these tragically sweet moments,
and before the commitment of dawn
if he means it a little less than the day before.

Overtones of disappointment punctuate our every move.
Our present is muted by our future and what might have been a great love recedes as quietly as it came. 

I study his face - 
his pores
the crinkles near his eyes
hints of silver at his temples.
He can stare at the ceiling, expressionless,
for so long
but when I ask him what he is thinking he says
and I'm afraid that I believe him.


my brain is abuzz with sensation
constantly churning and negotiating and wondering

and this is how I know he will do fine when I am gone for good.