Him

And my thoughts return to him
Down his back
Across his eyes
Maybe a touch to the shoulders,
Some hair slipped between two fingers
A slow fingering of the fleshy canal of his spine.
Irregardless of the look, thought or illusion,
It's the truth
that he does
and does not
fill this room

And Maybe I Don't Mean Any of this........

I do yoga in the morning, instead of mope. I read Sartre, instead of cry. Actions come easier now, when thoughts were all I had. I'm at place, full of live anger and partial acceptance. Which is better than hoping.
Because I'm tired of waiting, I'm tired of wanting, I'm tired of hoping. I'm really just tired, instead of me. Because when a person becomes everything to you, and they're never around to see it, negligence is all you have in your hands to show time what you've accomplished. So I've decided to let you go. Tell myself to stop hoping. And tell my feet to start walking. And let my head do the thinking. Instead of a maybe . Or a possibility. Or the what if.
No, just the action....
Because the one thing this world requires of you, and it's not negligence, it's you.
For a change, I want you to come to me, and remember how special it is that I actually love you. Because nobody ever asked me to. I chose that for sure. And now I'm choosing this.

Beautiful

"I love your innocent, decent face."
They would say, with a hint of pretension that engages them in snarls of their lips. Pushing up their own confidence in making it wrong for you to be the most beautiful man in the world. Be my most beautiful man in the world.

Worthless

When I can't be me with you
I wonder if you ever knew
How we touch
In my dreams
With all the love
I'll never see
Look
Only to long
For what
I could live on
Like a knife
to my throat
If I ever left you
Alone
For only I will know
Everyday
What You'll forget
Once I say

Vacation Rental Dog Beach Tide

It's just  a place to put my mind for a while
so I don't have to think about the dog and the beach
and the resort vacation
and your hands all over me
Some call it other things
Like a job
a good book
a leisurely walk
a swim
a long ride on a bus
a rushed e-mail
solitaire for ten minutes before the clothes go into the wash...
but we all know what it really is
it's a place to put my head so I don't have to, for just a plucked minute, hour, half hour, second, day...
to think of you

Him

When I'm all alone, I think of him
I press his cheeks to mine
I hear the pitter-patter of his feet upon my floor as I lie in bed
I know his middle name and roll it off my tongue in aggravation at empty toilet rolls
I see his dirty socks in the hamper
I feel his chest near mine
I notice his smell sitting alone in traffic
I know his music collection
I know his DVD collection
I know his hopes
His dreams
But I do not have his heart.

Flowers

The flowers kept coming for exactly fifty days until the middle of a miserable night she came dripping on his door step, and a few unlayerings later into his home, their lips pressed together. She did not know whether to stay or to go in the morning but he knew he woke up without her. And as she watched swift light poles pass by in the crisp morning bus commute she had wondered what she had really done. She wanted to go back a thousand times but had he figured her out?

Oh Where Have you Been

Oh beloved where have you gone?
I am getting older
And I don’t know where you have gone
Take my hand if you can show me
I’m standing here at your heart's ache
I’ve loved you all along
You know my name but dare not speak it to your lips
And at the end of the woods
And at the end of your stare
You will find me
Just where I have always been
In your crying arms
Near your crying eyes
So that you might know where I have been, oh beloved

Pages

I've pages in my heart that reveal nothing but you
I wish there was something more appropriate to put in those places
Something more mature
Something more becoming
Something more...
And I pour over them night and day
I've read them more than once or twice
I've more than memorized them
And tucked them into a quiet pocket hoping no one will ask of the words written there
But I've buried them
Where dew festers and sleeps with rain
A place for centipedes and bean sprouts
So, even when you're gone
And so are those pages
They'll remain crinkled in my heart
Their age obvious
Each word carved carefully with sincerity
But in the end
They will be thrown aside
And remembered for just that
Words on a page