poems

GHOSTS 

 you see him there — the ghost of what you thought could be yours.

You see him there, but try not to compare.
His hair is longer.
Now he still says he wants to grow it to the ground.

The days of saran wrap and concert tracks
being around like the symbols of a drum,
syncopated rhythmically,
but you said no,
hoping that fate would eventually show a smile on your face.

So you go somewhere only God knew you were needed.
He built a home,
now you’re walking off the stairs on a tarmac.

You hear the news — he’s found his one,
so I try not to compare.

But now I’m back.
I see him again — tall, dark, handsome.
So I imagine what could be a future, a fantasy.

Try not to compare.
It’s actually right in front of me,
but the distance is wide.

But we tried.
Gave my heart, he held it.
Reassurance was a given,
games nonexistent.

But then, once again,
a power from above said it’s time to end.
I swallow my breath and try not to have fear and grief towards God.
I truly do want to hold there.

HOW MANY 

How many heartbreaks does it take?
But as I drive past his house, or see an Acura,
a trifecta of memories floods.
I don’t think about what;
I think about what could be —
a dangerous game of testing your reality.

But what you don’t see
is their fears, their tears,
the bills, the pills,
the games they may be playing — give and take.

So look ahead — seventh time’s the charm.
But I truly do ask myself,
why?

Grieving the Imagined

It was this time last fall.
I slid down the wall,
tears crashed as he walked me back.

Why did I leave?
Why did I go?
Why did my path divert down this road?

Can you tell me, dear —
why did you leave?
Why did you fear?

But don’t stop on your path.
Don’t say,
“I want it back.”

Because you don’t know him now.
Many years down the road —
maybe it’s the same driver,
but his new car handles and feels unfamiliar.

Like walking through your childhood room, campus, or high school —
the walls alter but the same.
The smell still sticks thick.
The words girls say to themselves haven’t changed.

But you’re not there.
You’re not supposed to be here.

So I pull my car away.
Turn the blinker flashing — my heartbeat.

It hasn’t flatlined for you.
It just has scars to show me
that a heart can grow.

I’m not sorry I held you once,
but let me be upfront with you and myself.