Just in Case

Just in case
your tomorrow
doesn’t find me
in the realm of the tangible,
but rather
coasting subways
to burrow into boroughs
of an after life
void of you.

I’ll apologize now
for shying away
from awkward introductions,
for being the hallmark
of timidness,
for standing
half past bashful,
wishing to express in words
just how much I regret
never tasting a future with you
in anything more
than a shot glass
of wishful attempts,
waiting to be chased
by excuses
I could never stomach living with.

Caught in the Act of Dreaming

She once said,
“To be nice,
is to be naive
and stupid.”
And if that’s the case,
I choose to believe
that I have a chance,
a special slot
in your heart of hearts.

I’ll let my gullibilty
bet all for you
for a pot of jack in return.

I’ll choose to believe
that your senses
yearn for me,
as much as mine do for yours.

Choose to believe
that reels of us together
still play
on the ceiling of your eyes,
and that you
still smile at the credits
that boast nothing
but what we once were.

I still believe,
that you could believe
in us,
in an us that never budded
past the existence
of wishful thinking…

Not Until You Say Yes

This, is for all the times
I told myself
that I wouldn’t,
shouldn’t,
love you.
For the excuses
that divorced us,
forced us
to believe them as truth
til we found ourselves
married to lies we swore
to love and cherish.
And in all honesty,
I would shop with you again;
but this time,
to buy back the part of me
that wasn’t afraid
to say yes,
the part committed to say
til the death of death
I do,
the part of me that
never really
stopped loving you.

This time,
I’ll chance circumstances;
do more than
prance around the idea
of leaving you with
wishes to wed,
and web between synapses
longing for connections.

This time, I’ll engage
more than your physique.
I’ll marinade your thoughts
within my eardrum,
so you’ll know that I’m listening;
sauté them along
my distractions,
slowly ingest them
’til the span of my attention
expires,
save the leftovers
for foreplay,
become intimate
with your daydreams,
undress your fantasies
by candlelight,
and bury your secrets
under sheets of trust
we can become lost under.

See this time,
you won’t find me
in the end zone
of your friendship,
or as the bench warmer
of your rejections;
the waterboy
to quench your thirst of attention when he can’t afford to,
or limping on crutches
from a broken self-esteem.

This time, you’ll find me
at the end of your thoughts,
the beginning of the next
writing my vows to you
til you’re ready
to say yes.

An Honest Poem (Part II)

I’ve never been fond of the idea
of “stealing your heart.”
For some reason,
the theory of theivery
as the method
of acquiring affection
seems less
romantic,
than the pretensions
that Holly and Wood
attempt to portray.

We are not actors,
and I refuse to perform
on the stage
of your heart,
when every step we take
still creaks from the wake
of amateur lovers,
losing their footing
while looting leading roles
they could never uphold,
before ever learning how
to support you.

They reel from being real,
never able to assure you
of something more authentic
than rehearsed apologies
and screenplay breakups.
So you wake up,
to academy award
winning performances,
after lackluster nights
as memorable
as meteor showers in daylight,
“best picture” mornings
with a nominee
we both know,
doesn’t deserve to share
a moment in your limelight.

So I choose
to earn your attention
with chivalry,
your affection with a
“you break it you buy it”
kind of honesty
because I’d rather be yours,
after all the lies
we tell ourselves like:
“He wasn’t always like this,”
or
“He’ll change,
eventually.”

But I’ll wait,
’til you’re tired of settling
for settlers
with stuttering excuses
for being less than a man,
backpedalling
from every occasion
to stand up for you
as if he were allergic.

The larceny
of your love,
the heist
of artificial highs
and the stolen emotions
you were never meant to
“fall” for
need not be a sequel
to your future.

May you find
a man that needs no mask
to obscure his intentions,
a man who’s
honesty isn’t stapled to fibs,
an audacity to be mendacious,
a man
who knows where his place is,
not above but beside,
conjoined at the ribs
to inspire,
aspire to be
more faithful than his options,
a man
who’s never been fond of
stealing your heart,
but rather
engage it in its chase
for a love of a lifetime,
a man
willing to finish last
if it means putting you first. 

Yellow Room

I loved you yesterday,
when your name was
only a guess
to a positive pregnancy test.
Yes,
you may have been unplanned
but never a mistake,
you were simply a future
conceived in high stakes.
So we wagered
and won
you,
like a prized possession.
You were
a surprising confession
we couldn’t keep secret,
neither did we want to.
So I told the neighbors
to keep their sons indoors starting now,
just as a safety precaution
because I was sure you’d be born
with ‘drop dead gorgeous’ syndrome
passed on from the back pocket
of your mother’s genes
which slightly explains
why I still might be
dying to see you.

So we waited
for your grand entrance
into this world,
like loved ones do at airports.
We waited
to commence our lives with you,
like Olympians at the starting line,
muscles taut with tension
with adrenaline spiking;
if they were running for gold
we were gunning for platinum.
We were ready
to place you on pedestals
before you ever conceived
the notion of crawling.

But who knew
that you would never taste
of defeat
or success?
Who knew
that we shouldn’t have been waiting
at the gate for your arrival
but rather in the line
for lost baggage claims?
Who knew
that you would send our expectations,
our emotions,
our hopes
through a marathon,
a triathlon
when
there was never a chance
of you waiting
at the finish line.
Who knew
that when we wagered and won
the prize would be
a still, empty crib,
stocks of diapers
and babyshower bibs,
pacifiers
that could never pacify you,
or this moment
in your yellow room
because pink and blue
were far too generic
and you
were far too precious
for colors to define.

Even though you’ll never know,
I’d love you today
and for the ‘morrows
that are never promised
I’ll love you always.

Audition

I’ll never be an artist,
rock star,
or an MC
with the telepathy
to sway the masses;
a model
with a face that passes
for something more than average
worth the click,
click,
shutter flashes
to the right of limelight passage;
I’m not
as smooth
as tap dancin’ jazz is
truth is,
my practice
needs practice
in all areas -
but loving you
unconditionally.

I’d like to be a prodigy
with the talent to
chase your soul
through its gauntlet
of insecurities,
doubts,
apprehensions
tugging chords of tension
to trust again,
past the scars
of failed relationships
with jesters attempting to be lovers.

Let it be known
that loving you
is the only thing
I’d like to be a natural at.
I’m not an acrobat,
I can’t somersault
this body of mine
into a heart like yours,
not even for a Klondike bar;
but I’m insane enough
to be your stuntman
if you let me.

Remember

Remember,
when we watched the sun
skinny dip off the tip
of the earth?
You could’ve sworn you heard
the splash of colors
hit the sky and drip
beautiful
back into your eyes.

Remember,
the amber,
the embers we tempered,
we tampered to glow
as we smoldered our souls
to burn
just as slowly,
wholly for one another?

Remember,
the eve when our atoms
first met,
our tainted genesis
we could never forget.

When “I miss you”
felt crippled and maimed,
weak and estranged
escaping our tongues,
hollow as breath
evading our lungs;
when our essence,
our electrons thirsted,
pined,
yearned for the valence
of each others.

No one dared
to skin our proximity,
our affinity,
closer than milliseconds.
We addressed each other
in first person
as if our genes
were stitched at the seams,
an affixed eclipse
of identities.

Remember,
when our infinity,
“forever and a day”
was once a stranger
to expiring.
Remember,
when it sunk
with a truth so deep
it was anchored
to the ocean floor.

Remember,
when we looked
forward to futures,
building monuments of memories
never destined to be dismantled
by eternity.

You can scribe me
into your footnotes,
as if I was something
worth remembering
and I’ll pen you
into the margin of my ribs
for inspiration,
my favorite event
this side of our horizon.