La Dolce Vita

slick city streets slide through the glass
cateye sluggish squint slimming the haze of midnight
highway daubed with drifting design
my mouth is slippery in drink
declarations dubiously tethered between my ears
emancipate themselves, cascading through my parted lips
spilling into the dashboard
wretched hands folded inconsequential
unworthy of any ceremonious change
i will never be enough
for you
for anyone

liquid lull of resignation and windshield wipers
eschewing the plea
forehead against the window
i close my eyes
dissipating into la dolce vita

Tiny Elephant

Explicit bits of conversation weave in and out, moth-eaten in the fabric of us. Casual mentions of things to come - hiking in Cusco, grazing horses through the kitchen window, sunning on the Marbella coast, entrepreneurial wine bars...

Let go.
Just breathe.
Live now.

Dreamy paradigms prove difficult to live by when flirting with the future feels a little like lying. A deeply grooved proboscis wraps around my heart and tightens its grip when I insinuate someday. Ashed gray uncertainty deftly tugs me backwards when I slip.

Sans plans for the subsequent, what's the point?
The sex is good.
At what price am I lying to myself?

He wants to stay. Born and raised. And hell - we all know what I think of the snow.

Will I break his heart, too?

Oh, Hush now. We have weekend plans.

Post Script Incrimination

Mrs.
Mr.s
Mr's
Mister's
His

She's plain. 
The groom's grandfather described my dear friend to a stranger. She shakes her head and insists that it's because she doesn't wear flashy jewelry or red lipstick.

There's always a warm one waiting somewhere. 
Ten minutes before the ceremony, and with a toothy grin, his brother hints that Jason's freedom isn't entirely sold.

I withheld judgement. I supported. I bought the amethyst dress. I flew to Texas and assured myself that foreboding could be dismissed. I curled her hair and I stood beside her. I smiled and laughed. I carried her flowers. I brought her red wine and bustled her dress. I twirled the little girls who told me I looked like Barbie. I danced with her new husband.

Deflating in coach on the way home, hushed criticisms resonate. My eyes are tired and, instead of working, I stare out the window at the snow covered acres below.

 Lord knows I am jaded, but I have never left a wedding feeling quite like this.

Dear Katie,

My sweet, brown eyed friend,

Please know that you are golden. You are strong. 

You deserve the best life has to offer. 

     xx

     Lulu

P.S. If he hurts you, I will kill him. 

Presage

Jason asked me to marry him.  

Her voice was thin and distant. The immediate swell of disquietude was respectfully hidden by a thousand miles and a cell phone. Through my teeth, I told her that I was happy. I may have even forced an invisible smile.

I said yes. 

Katie was my housemate for a year or two during grad school. Back then, we both needed each other. My courage. Her sanity. Red wine and tomato bruschetta for dinner every night. She was good for me. But even then, I knew she needed me more.

You're going to be there, right? 

Only four months ago he left her to "figure things out." But she was buried deep beyond the jurisdiction of reasonable advice by then. Now he asked for a commitment she had already made. In a precipitate both belated and breakneck, we exhaled into the space between us.

Of course. 

Irrelevant

SB: Hi.
SB: I just wonder if you ever think about me.
SB: You don't have to answer.



A Sonnet from the Archive of Love's Failures, Volumes 1-3.5 Million
by Anne Boyer

If you were once inside my circle of love

and from this circle are now excluded,
and all my love's citizens I love more than you,
if you were once my lover but I've stopped
letting you, what is the view from outside

my love's limit? Does my love's interior emit
upward and cut into night? Do my charms,
investigations, and illnesses issue to the dark
that circles my circle? Do they bother

your sleep? And if you were once my friend
and are now my villainous foe, what stories
do you tell about how stupid those days
when I cared for you? Because I tell stories

of how you must tremble at my love's terrible walls,
how the memory of its interior you must always be eroding