The door opens and
he’s standing there

(and the irrational
part of me wants
to camp out here
from now on and
wait because) he’s
always ready to
see me when I’m
standing in his path.

He lets his hand graze
across my back whenever
I get within his reach and
I’d never dream of
discouraging him,

in fact, I welcome it.

But amid all the bright
and begging moments
I have to pause and

plead with him to
please stop
torturing me
this way.

I’m standing in his path.

I get out of the way
whenever he asks
but he always seems
to like seeing me
standing in his path.

I just wish he didn’t
spend so much time

standing in his own

and torturing me
with it this way.
… MEN.


This, That, the Other

There is
no waver
to the timbre
of my voice
when I say

you know
me better
than I have
ever known

and so
I wonder why
you waver when
I stake my claim
on the same.

Speak softly
as long as you
need to and

I will always
hear you.

the things you
think and do
not say.



I can tell
what he wants
but that he
can’t commit
to taking it
and he
makes me miss

the way your hand
on the small
of my back
could guide me

the way my breath
caught whenever
your eyes met mine
under veiled lids

the way you
possessed me
so immediately
and completely
and the way you
walked away just
as suddenly.

I can tell
what he wants
but that he
can’t commit
to taking it
and he
makes me miss

the men who did
even though they
gave it back again.
I’ve always been a fan of men (and women) who take what they want (within reason). And nothing is more unattractive to me than a man (or woman) so skittish you can see it when they look at you.


I Keep Losing You

I keep
losing you.

I wasn’t
for a world
without you,

so I keep
coming up
against things
I can’t

You’re the
man who
taught me
the world
wasn’t such a
scary place but

is that
still true
in a world
without you?

I know
you’re gone.

The larger
than life space
you inhabited
is more empty
than any space
has a need to be.

But my heart
got bigger
then, too.

Because it had
to make room
for you.

So you’re gone
but you’re here
and it isn’t enough.

And I keep
losing you.
How can 5 years feel like 5 minutes? This is bullshit, Universe. As a coping mechanism for life, a person can learn to live with a lot, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have my moments. And the moments are innumerable over the past 5 years where I’d have given anything to talk to Misi. And we’ll never be square, you and me. The scales are always going to be tipped in your favor, Universe, in a world where he doesn’t exist anymore.


If He Were A Painter

If he were a painter
he’d use long brush strokes
skating his fingers along
the canvas with wide
deliberate abandon.

If he were a painter
he’d use light brush strokes
dancing his fingers up and down
the canvas with frenzied
ecstatic deliberation.

If he were a painter
he’d use heavy brush strokes
searing his fingers into
the canvas with ardent
inevitable resolution.

If I were a canvas
my god
I would let him.