She claims she likes her/
differentness, what raises/
her above the rest.
OR
She claims she likes her/
uniqueness, that which raises/
her above the rest.
She claims she likes her/
differentness, what raises/
her above the rest.
OR
She claims she likes her/
uniqueness, that which raises/
her above the rest.
Shouldn’t a hopeless/
romantic be hopeful and/
hope-filled, not sans hope?
Some may call out
their Love
loudly,
in public.
I would never,
by name,
name her who inspires,
uplifts,
motivates me.
She
will be
still.
Quiet.
Unknown
to the world,
known only
to me.
As it should be.
I won’t write
about her,
by name;
by specific reference.
The world would never say:
“This piece about her,
specifically.”
Who was the piece
“Fuer Elise” for?
Who was Elise?
If she is my muse,
I must write about her.
I cannot keep silent
about her.
But no one will ever know,
for sure,
it is her.
Just as God writes about people:
“There was a certain woman …”
keeping her identity
private,
only by inspiration
known.
And if she asks:
“Is it I?”,
I may smile.
It seems that we have/
before, but I don’t know why/
we don’t anymore.
Now, I’ve returned.
Now, we’ve again met.
It was nice seeing
her again.
Now what?
My enthusiasm is not
rampant.
My desire is not
intense,
unlike the past.
But I’m not ambiguous, either.
I’m calm,
waiting,
like sap within
an old apple tree’s roots
after a long winter.
It waits to be warmed
by spring sun’s rays.
To rise up
and flow out
and push the buds
into blossoms
that explode
inscentandcolorandbeauty
and eventually
bear sweet fruit.
Outside, pink-red
like her lips and skin.
Inside, light gold
like her hair,
moist like the sap
that is starting, now, to move.
With stem to twist
and ask,
at harvest,
“Now what?”
Pick, and taste,
and savor the sweetness
and nourishment
.
Or ignore
until the fruit
grows past
what it could have been
and falls,
unnoticed,
to the ground,
where it bruises,
and turns brown
and sour
and rots.
I’m getting sleepy./
Take all the time that you need./
I will not be there.
It’s easier to/
dump her than have her dump me … /
and much less painful.
Given my druthers,/
I’d rather ride with her than/
crusty old truckers.
They were only
words:
Words
meant to create
emotions,
share feelings,
verbally prompt us
to enjoy each other.
Instead,
remembering the words,
knowing how they impacted you,
makes me feel
like I’ve trampled
on flowers,
squished ladybugs
under my heel,
turned a magnifying glass’s beam
on an ant hill,
thrown frogs in the road,
torn the wings
off of butterflies.
That is not
who I am.
That is not
what I would do.
And yet,
With my mouth,
my lips,
my tongue,
I did.
She doesn’t have to/
decide anything to go/
to dinner. Will she?