Concert

We locked eyes

And mouthed “I love you”

With the excuse of a song

Playing in the arena around us.

You were wearing jeans and heavy boots;

I remember because they thudded loudly

On my carpet later that night

When the right people made the wrong decisions.

We touched noses and I held you there,

The gentle slopes of our faces

Crashing down with waves of dopamine

That lit the world with a feigned fire of forged emotion.

The butterfly kisses were my favorite;

My wings were too short and yours tickled.

Sometimes we’d make them fly to each other,

And our lips would barely brush but that was enough.

“You’re a strange, strange girl,” you said,

and I breathed in deep to save every last molecule of you.

It was the only way you knew how to say “I love you”

When the music stopped and there was nothing to fill the silence.

i wonder

i wonder, how often do you think of me?

is it every time you breathe and my mouth is not there to inhale a small sliver of your soul?

or is it every time you look up and your gaze is not met with my eyelashes brushing gently against your cheek?

or maybe it is every time your lips curl up into a smile and there is no one there to laugh at your crooked teeth.

or perhaps it is every time you furrow your brow in frustration and i am not there to smoothen your forehead with a kiss.

i wonder, do you even notice that i am no longer there?

or if when you breathe now, your lungs flutter with sighs of relief.

or if when you look up, all you see is clarity where mist once clouded your judgment -- your every thought.

or if when every time you smile, it is of release and of the realization that this is what you've always wanted -- to be alone.

or if when you furrow your brow, it is in genuine confusion as to why it took you so long to get here.

i wonder, how often do you regret the life i so terribly miss?

97 In Between

We parted ways at the center clock

With small embraces

And mumbled exchanges

Sauntering to our numbered platforms

Looking back for a moment

Reluctant yet relieved.

As I stepped onto my train

Whisked away back again

To a sleepy one horse town

I began to wonder

About all the things I didn't say:

Was he closer to his father

Or his mother?

Was he scared of being swallowed whole

In a school of 30,000

Or would he navigate gracefully

Through the crowds of people

Trying their best to make sense of it all

Just like him?
Even though he swears he’s not a messy eater

How many times a day

Does he stain his baby blue button down

With mint chocolate chip ice cream?

Does he watch them splash around

Darting his eyes from left to right

For the money

Or something

Deeper

And bigger

Than all of us?

Why finance?

Does it make his heart sing,

And would he ever consider Wall Street?

What goes on

In that beautiful mind 

As he sits quietly in a corner

With an empty beer can in hand

Waiting for someone to notice him?

Did he know he was the first time

I looked at novelty with eagerness;

Something other than spite?

And lastly,

Did he know

On the subway ride home

Back to 42^nd

Where I discovered

That the crook of his arm

Was a place I fit perfectly

That this was the last time?
Did he know it was the end

To something that had not yet begun

Or does he too,

Wonder

About all the things he didn't say?

Pulp Fiction

You say let's chalk it up

and blame it on the drunkenness,

but a part of me wants to believe

that this was meant to happen.

We were supposed to find ourselves

drunk on whiskey on a rainy

Wednesday summer afternoon,

our foreheads touching as we 

drunkenly giggle at the idea of us,

with our faces lit up by the faint glow

of Pulp Fiction on the TV screen,

and me begging you with my eyes

to kiss me.

And we never even got to finish

that damn movie

or find out what happens next;

I guess we were too busy

writing our own story

that we'll chalk up tomorrow

and blame on the drunkenness.

FOR THREE WEEKS I BORROWED YOUR BOYFRIEND

1.
I took a quick glance at his phone screen
And there, in the tiny glowing square,
Were the words he was writing to you
But saying to me.

2.
We walked down Astor Place
And he mentioned you,
A quick slip of the tongue,
Slippery like the phrases I never let roll off mine.

3.
The subway swayed and he laid a hand on the small of my back
Steadying me, holding me in place.
But all I could see when I closed my eyes
Were him and you, swaying on the dance floor.

My Almost Romeo

There is something to be said about doing romantic things with unromantic people. About having picnics in Central Park with Italian wine and store-bought mozzarella cheese and assorted crackers, in the hopes of even slightly resembling Europe. About laying out on blankets in Bryant Park and watching  poorly delivered renditions of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, in desperate attempts to soak in every source of literature possible, regardless of quality. About getting on the last 6 train to Little Italy because of sudden hankerings for cannolis and gelato, despite having to spend the very last of dollar bills on subway fares. There is something to be said about existing in a medium so wonderfully crafted by things of love; but one where it cannot, and will not, exist.

Down in Downtown SoHo

Grand Central Terminal, 10:51 PM

A budding potential 

His green eyes resembled

As we exchanged apprehensive glances across the room.

A handsome young stranger

Smile speckled with just the right danger

Could he cure my never ending gloom?

Who is he?

Could he love me?

All questions asked much too soon.

Two lost souls

Daring to be bold

Silently juggle the odds of doom.

There was something in our silence

Be it reckless, or maybe violent

With power that beamed like the moon.

Because as our eyes locked

I admit my heart stopped

In that over-crowded and dimly lit room.