Driving through the lot

I realize how it feels

to be a ghost,

haunting old haunts,

incapable of reaching you.
Time passes,

people age,

weight is gained and lost

around bones that creak.

Situations change, and yet,

there is this part of me

tender and raw, hard and fast

all at once,

which stays

the same.
Like a rabbit I catch your scent

on the crest of a wave

as it whispers into

the crescent of shore.

I realize perhaps,

you are a ghost as well,

like me.
But then, we always were

precisely the same.
My skin twitches,

wondering if you hear me think

I’m here, I’m here, find me!

wondering if for a moment

it would be tempting

to open yourself,

allow me to pass through you

with all the memories of all

the little deaths we died,

only to rise

and fall again.
Because, reunion always was

so sweet and savage.
We are lost,

and so I realize

what it means

to be a ghost,

with no beginning or end

that feels quite right,

slipping through night after night,

trying to bury bones

only to exhume them,

and turn them over and over

in my hands,

without a moment’s rest.


Originally published on http://www.momasteblog.wordpress.com


may not pass

time’s passage
has rubbed skin raw where once
you held me close and still.
the clock still beams down
upon the city,
ever silent, benevolent moon.
originally posted 5/13/16 on my other blog, http://www.momasteblog.wordpress.com …  thanks for reading and I love to hear from you so feel free to comment! 

Bumping Into Bill Murray in a Bar or a Dream

Your coat and tie would be rumpled.
You would appear tired in a way
I might fix with a smile, as we
caught eyes
over respective drinks in a bar
I could never really afford.
My lipstick would be fresh,
a crimson promise gleaming.
Leaning over, do you enjoy oysters, then, let’s get a table,
you would say, and we’d move
to a spot where sadness
and secrets could slide
against each other like our sleeves
against each other.
Or maybe I pass you
on a train as I make my way through
the crowded car on my way home
from a museum and we find ourselves
fumbling into your hotel room
because I’ve always been drawn to
the vulnerability of exhaustion.
I used to know how to make a good joke,
back in the day when I was lonely
and freshly lipsticked, and dreamed
you would solve everything.
Not any more.
I’m happy now.
I’m happy now.

Glass Animals on Your iPod

The stairs are white and go on forever,
or at least up to the room
where we are meeting at the top.
Standing by a door, you say, “hey Sonny”
and I’m confused because I’m a girl,
a woman, clearly,
then I realize you meant I was like the sun,
and they are the best words
I’ve ever heard.
I learn you have all the same music
and it plays as we climb.
I know it’s a dream,
and I’ll wake
and I’ll feel awkward
and you’ll never know there was
a moment in my brain when you saw me.
You saw me sing and carry a bicycle and
everything we each liked was the same.
You saw me with kind eyes that never saw
me before, and will never see me again.
Your shirt, fell open at the neck, and
the peek of chest represented
the treasure of my heart’s desire,
the dawn of something.
I rushed from the shower, soaking,
to write it all down as soon as I remembered,
lest I ever forget the white
of those stairs
as we zig zagged up and up.

Why I Stayed So Long

It wasn’t a dream. It happened. I know it happened in my real, waking life.

One afternoon, we met at a cafe. He had taken a few hours out of work, and I didn’t have classes until much later. So we met and shared a coffee that I wished was wine.

We held hands over the tiny table-top.

It was a gray, late autumn afternoon. I had just started my first year of graduate studies, but could barely concentrate on school because of my obsession with the man who sat there with me in his expensive shirt and fine watch. It was a highly anxious intoxication, knowing he was taking secret time away from work for me.

We sat outside. It was chilly, but we were comfortable.

Actually I was not comfortable. My stomach was curling around a knot, and it felt like my ribs were a cage full of fluttering canaries. It was a highly unpleasant sensation, but I was spending considerable time convincing myself it was love.

“I decided I should be happy for at least the little bit of time I have left in my life,” he said. My heart sped up exponentially. “So, I’m going to do it. I’m going to leave her.”

You couldn’t call what we were doing “dating”. Not exactly. We were seeing each other for dinner and movies, yes. We were holding hands while we walked in malls and bought stuff. We were saying “I love you,” and we were having sex. Lots and lots of sex. Shameful sex hidden in cars and hotels and empty apartments of friends. He was staying out with me until the wee hours of the morning and he even introduced me to some of his friends.

But he was married.

So, while it looked an awful lot like dating, and while it felt a lot like love, it lacked a certain something.

It was full of a lot of other things.

Exhaustion. Guilt. Fear. Jealousy.

Common sense would have dictated those were not the cornerstones of any healthy relationship.

Common sense was not driving me deeper and deeper into a forest that would ultimately be very dank and miserable.

Common sense was nowhere to be found as he said these words to me, and I heard them, and responded.

“Really?” I gasped, smiling until my face hurt. “You’re really going to leave?”

“Yes. I’ll ask George if I can crash with him for a bit. Until I find a place. So, will you marry me?”

After every time we were together, I would ask him to marry me. Every time. Even if we had just talked on the phone, I would ask him to marry me. Saying I adored him was like saying the Hope diamond is a pathetic trinket. An understatement that didn’t even touch the depth of my infatuation.

I kissed him right there in the cafe, not caring at the people who stared at us and wondered what the attractive young woman was doing with the tired and much older man, and told him I would marry him. He told me he would get me a ring. Or maybe I demanded a ring. I can’t quite recall. When Common Sense isn’t involved, memories have a way of twisting and turning.

But I know it really happened. I know he told me he was going to leave and start a life with me. I did not dream it. It was real.

I also know this much is accurate: I stayed with him for three more years because of that afternoon in the cafe.

“So, when will this all happen?” I wanted to know.

“Well, we are supposed to go away for the long weekend to the Cape. So, I guess I’ll have to do it tonight. I’ll have to talk to her. It’s not going to be pretty.”

“I’ll be here for you,” I offered, not realizing how inane my twenty-something offer was in light of the mountain he was about to climb only to pack with dynamite and blow it to smithereens.

All that night, I waited for his call. I waited for him to call and tell me how it went, to give me the next step of the plan.

He called me the next morning.

“I couldn’t do it.” He sighed and over the phone I could see him hanging his head and rubbing his eyes.

There was nothing I could do or say.

He went away to the Cape for the weekend with his wife and I writhed in the mire of anguish.

Then he came back and we picked up where we had left off.

And I stayed for three more years because I thought there would be another afternoon in another cafe with another proposal.

But there never was.