Paris Street.jpg

It is only in my dreams

that we mean something to each other.

In reality we have never spoken.

I immortalize these words for my own sake,

in the hopes that their weight

will create a gravity sufficient

to draw you closer.


Someday I believe that we will meet on a street

where love runs deeper than cobblestones

and you will cross over to me

as often as it takes to be at my side.

Someday must happen soon

for I have drifted too long at sea

and fear that I might have

grown too foreign for domestic use.


The sight of you makes my feathers itch.

I pluck them delicately like the strings on a harp

and in their melancholy refrain

you can just hear my heart going off

like fireworks in the distance.


I could fashion a constellation

of our silhouettes as they congeal and contort

on the stark canvas of our outermost walls.

We would be spectacular together,

the way art is spectacular

when shaped by a singular instinct.


The stars, taken in their totality,

are not sufficient to encapsulate my wish

only your words have the power to shift continents,

whether to draw them near or push them apart.

Perhaps you too are a poet?

Summon me, I will answer.


I sit quietly thinking you into being on a bus.

Strangers side by side in rows

embroidered into their virtual lives

and vacant on the outside.

The seat beside me is empty:

it is an extension of myself,

my strangely glorified isolation.

If it were you there beside me

my whole life would be transformed in an instant

and I along with it.


My old skin has gotten too tight

and whenever I move my bones knock together.

My womb is deceased but her guile remains intact.

I can’t quite imagine what has taken her place.

It could be that I am filled up like a balloon,

only the air is not air but vestiges of a life

we could have together.

Someday when you have come to love me

I will grow another heart the size of your fist

and that heart will be more than enough to fill me.