A haiku for u./
Just do what you are called to,/
and you’ll be okay.

Fake constraints we place/
around our brains and our hearts/
strangle our new starts.

Let’s just be friends just/
benefits you. It’s not fair/
unless I say, too.

What if,/
4 once,/
relationships stayed?/
What if,
4 once,/
nobody strayed?/
What if,
4 once,/
the Universe obeyed/
our innermost desire/
2 hold passion’s fire/
4 once?

I’m sorry I tried/
caressing your face. It was/
kindness out of place.

Waiting at midnight/
for you to drive home through mists./
Someone else got called.

I go through reams and reams of paper, in my mind, about your statement: “This is my bedroom, my sanctuary, my refuge. The only thing it needs is a Man.” I come up with this prose argument:

“No, you don’t need ‘a Man’ for your bedroom. You need a gentleman who fits the decor.

You need someone gently warm, like your glowing fireplace, who can remove your coolness and pain with the caress of his hand or his calming, tender embrace.

You need someone who, even when the lights are up, is dark and mysterious, someone who has edges and soulful mysteries yet to be discovered.

You need someone who, like the scented candles you’ve lined up, knows how to show and illuminate your soul with a soft and tender light, knows how to move through your space with romance and tranquility and a scent that moves you.

You need someone who, like your blankets and deep, rich comforter, knows how to wrap you and hold you and keep you safe and warm and secure and protected without smothering you.

You need someone who, like your wall hangings and tapestry, is moved and inspired by classic beauty, who reflects that classic vision himself, and who enjoys the dream of travel to distant places, yet knows that a gentle countryside and nature close to home are just as peaceful and tranquil as a Tuscan countryside.

You need someone who, like the music surrounding you, even in the dark, knows how to soothe, inspire, uplift and energize you, depending on the mood you set.

You need someone who, like the plants in your room, understands, appreciates and lives with and in and through and because of nature and her beauties.

You need someone who, like the photos of your children, adores and embraces family, someone who is not only an example and a leader, but a friend to younger people.

You need someone who, like the deep, rich, well-worn leather books, can share with you wisdom, knowledge and understanding without saying a word.

You need someone who, when the candles go out, when the music drifts away and the final notes hang in the still air, when the glowing embers fade away with their last bit of heat, can wrap you like the night, be there with and by you in the soft darkness, and listen to you as you pour out your mind, your heart, your soul.

You want someone who you can hold hands with while you’re sitting on the edge of your bed,

someone who will rub your feet, forehead, back, calves when you’re tired, not with the firm, oafish crush of a strong, untrained hand, but with the firm yet gentle caress of hands practiced in touching beauty in all her forms,

someone who is not afraid of holding you in the dark as you drift off to sleep,

someone who is not afraid to awaken next to you in the morning and, holding you close and whispering in your ear, tell you that, even in the early morning, no makeup, bed-head, and all, you are beautiful and he is overjoyed and inspired just to be with you.

That is who your bedroom needs.

How does being creative about you feel?

It hurts.
I write, in my mind, about your hurts.
I write, in my mind, about dancing with you,
hugging you,
caressing you.
I write, in my mind, about sharing your pain.
I write, in my mind, to remove the pain caused by past lovers, men who were not worthy of your spark, grace, fire, but who were content to be gathered around the warmth of your energetic flames.
I write, in my mind, about how I know how to start a fire with just one match, or one spark, or one hopeful, glowing ember.
I write, in my mind, how I have always tended fires and kept them alive and radiant, even when others could or would not.
I write, in my mind, about how I wish I had one-tenth the chance those men had to do things you are passionate about, about how they failed you so miserably, about how they nearly doused your flames, about how I wouldn’t, but would instead ignite and restore and fan the flames.
I write, in my mind, about how you inspire me.
About how I enjoy being with you.
About how you move me unexpectedly, like a warm evening breeze on a previously still and silent lake suddenly moves a small, becalmed sailboat.
And, knowing you are not here, writing about you, sometimes, hurts.

I’ve been tempted to join the drooling fray/

but I fear I would blow your fans away/

with my romantic verbosit-ay. /

What could your admirers then say?

Not only that, but I can see/

I could spend all my talents on thee,/

writing prose and poetry,/

and then, where would that get me?

A body of work for the ages to admire;/

to uplift, arouse, and inspire./

And as the flames of awe mount ever higher,/

I’d become consumed in veneration’s pyre.

When all I’ve ever wanted to do/

was express the awesome, inspirational you.

I can’t write po’try/
’bout a lass in Tuscany./
I miss her deeply.