Forgive me.

The first time I told you I loved you,
I was still figuring it all out.

I still am, I guess.


The situation appears to be terminal.

I’m resting on my haunches
over by the power outlets in SFO.
The sounds of idle construction,
buzzing somewhere off in the distance.

Layover’s delayed – God knows for how long.
This itinerary has a mind of its own.
Feels like eternity ago
that I hopped from CLE by way of BOS.

Nameless travelers drift listlessly by,
toting baggage they’ve collected along the way.

We’re all simply waiting on our next connection.


I must confess, I’ve never felt moved
to shout this love from the rooftops.
To demand the world take notice.
To let it reverberate in the ether.

Your love grows on my being
like a moss in the wood.
Quietly, do I stay my root
so as to know you more.

Role Models

Some of us are hoping to recreate
whatever it was that made us believe
our parents were meant to be.

Others of us have only learned
to recognize the warning signs
of conflicts which drove them apart.

Both are burdened by perspective –
one with great expectation,
the other with cynicism.

A Curious Nostalgia

I used to love imagining
what her smile might look like
with a few more wrinkles,
seen through eyes that didn’t bend light
quite like they used to.

And now,
strangely now,
I find myself unkempt with memories
of a future that will never come to pass.


Not everything can be remembered, so that some things will never be forgotten.


What a pity that we can only feel change
the trains steadying into their stations
or the jet engines screaming toward lift-off.

How quickly can we lose track
of the speed at which we travel.
The interminable spin of the wheel.
The unstoppable march of time.

And the fact that our pace must be slowed
to remember how fast we once ran.


In my dreams I can still love you.
I can forget the things we did to each other.

And fate hasn’t yet begun to conspire
the machinations which would drive us apart.


I'll know I have loved you
when it’s not merely
the sound of your voice
or the brush of your hand
that quickens my soul so.

But the shape of the letters
that form your sweet name –
meaningless in any other form.

I’ve studied their curves.
Taken comfort in their lines.
Written them in permanent ink
on the very folds of my being.


When will you learn that it’s possible
to put too much faith in your struggle?

What happened, that made pain the only thing
that the lungs of your soul recognize as air?

You can swim all day against the current
and still find yourself no closer to shore.