Dedication: For the Both of Us

May this year
be enthralled by your laughter,
your felicity,
explicitly more exquisite
than the silver linings
of years past.

You may age fast
but live slowly,
wholly to banish regret.
May the grey
and white strands
you possess
be antonymous to life ebbing,
connections webbing.
So when they ask,
as they often do,
we’ll call it
the wisdom effect.

May you hug,
envelope the leased minutes
down to the last
second chances
to accept apologies,
forgive the agonies
and rewrite the lefts
that led to more remorse
you never planned
to contort to.

Tell someone
they’re right.
Tell someone
they’re strong.
Admit that sometimes,
you’ll probably be wrong,
you might mistakes,
you just might let someone down,
but be human enough
to accept our imperfections.

May this year find you,
confronting fears,
transforming tears
into years saved
from complacency.

May it find you,
loving enemies,
releasing grudges
back from the swamp
they came from.
Be the lily
thriving in the midst
of morbid events.

Most of all,
may it find you
wearing the best edition yet
of yourself.
Being you
will always be in style,
regardless the season.


I’d like to rent your smile for a day;
mirror it back to you
just to see
if your heart would pay the fine
in palpitations,
a touch of tachycardia at best
a whispering murmur at worst
for being so,
so alive with the hope
of invulnerable beauty
and braced
with the promise
of eternal weekends…

Oh The Possibilities

She asked,
“Why do possibilities
seem to end
at the introduction
of rain?
There are more colors
than regret and sorrow;
more shades for
bliss to borrow
than dismay
and hollow.”

I figured,
we triggered
the trickle to dwindle
from deluge to timbrel
but this wasn’t simple.

We fiddled, we fumbled,
we diddled, we tumbled
and stumbled upon
like clashes of cymbals.

we splashed in the puddles
then shuttled the mud
back to our shuttle;

which actually was home
a place we had flown
back from the books
from where we had grown.

The seeds were sown,
we dethroned the gnomes
that threatened our throne,
our garden of stones.

Hellish the battle
through lightening that crackled
and thunder that shackled
ear drums to be rattled.

But under our tent
noons we’d spent
imagining clouds
descending their scents.

Aroma of things
that we used to do
before we grew up
and abandoned our youth.

you choose.
We’ll bundle,
we’ll snuggle,
we’ll relight the fuse.
Redouble our cuddles
there’s no time to muse.

Roses will wilt.
Violins will play blues.
I’ll be your umbrella,
I’ll be your sombrero,
I will be your weather,
whatever you choose.

If Loving You Was an Occupation

You’d be
the final resting place
for rewritten résumés,
the death of typos
and updates.

I’d rather not
enter into view
of anyone else but you,
whether it be by attention
or in the form of a thought;
I’ll plot to find
the nearest exit.

I am through
with self-image suicide;
I’d rather bask
in your acceptance.

If you’re ever to question what
are my favorite past times:

1) The informal introduction
to your dimples,
picture-framed suitably beautiful
for your smile.

2) Hairdo or coiffure.
Quite frankly, does it even matter
when your hair
harnesses the power
to shampoo my no’s
into conditioning me to say yes?
I think not.

3) The artistry, the sophistry
you wittingly inject
into the deck of our colloquies.
You always did have an
ace of spades remark
slicker than sleet
melting upon tin roofs.

4) You’ve implored,
pored more into my essence
without question.
There is no
theory of origins
within the parameters of me
too small for you to forget.

5) We are bound
by confessional ties.
Your secrets,
need not start with me
but best believe
I’ll be your mausoleum.

If loving you,
was an occupation
they’d have to change me
into a salary employee
for being guilty
of milking the clock.

I desire
no time off.
I’ll love you deep
into the weekdays,
twice as much
over the weekends,
pay holidays
to take more time off
just to pay you
more attention.

If loving you,
was an occupation
I’d need no benefits to stay.
I’d invest heavily
into your laughter,
your smile,
the best 401k
time could buy
this side of our lives.

If loving you,
was an occupation
I’d hope it to be
the last place I’ll ever
have to apply.


I think they said
we look good together;
wasn’t sure if it was in reference to:
our handmedown,
mismatched overalls that we wore as skin,
your long and layered
my short and wavy hair,
or that our hands held
could almost pass for the flyest jordans,
with your lighter
laced-like fingers gripped around mine;
so I’m
still not sure
if I should be offended or not.

I wish
I could believe them,
nod in agreement
like a bobblehead,
bouyant on waves of optimism,
but the pessimist in me
still holds grudges.

your compliments sometimes
reminds me of the days when
your ancestors declared it sin
to look upon a woman
shades lighter than my palms;
when they would’ve
bound our hands,
noose us on trees
as they tried to make
our whole race
Autumn like leaves,
but this is Spring
and there’ll be no Winter
to wither our love.

Just in Case You Forgot

You’re beautiful,
just in case
you might not feel like it.

Just in case,
he didn’t notice you were,
or his eyes
have defined beauty
to no longer look
homonymously like you.

Just in case,
it didn’t sound genuine
after you pointed out the fact that
you’re wearing one of his “favorites.”

Just in case,
it was meant
for the woman behind you,
beside you,
to the you
they mistook you for,
as if you aren’t worthy
of the compliment itself.

Just in case,
they sell you the lie
to hide behind makeup
to buy into their
campaign of acceptance.

You’re beautiful,
inside and out.
You’re beautiful,
without the filters.

Just in case you forget,
when no one else
seems to care or notice,
you are beautiful.

To be continued

Before last night,
I was an optimistic skeptic
with a synthesized spine
pining to support
an aborted dream,
a deserted hypothesis,
a hope
well nigh stifled down throat,
trampled by the reality
that love
never seems to beat
synonymously between lovers
with antonymous definitions.

Our chemistry,
needed no catalyst.
No enzyme
could accelerate us
into zero gravity
fast enough
to fuse our fall,
into the unanimous decision
that one of us,
will be forced to watch
the others’ orbital decay,
cremation upon descension
into an unforgiving ozone
of nostalgic skylines.
But the death of us,
will be brilliance ignited.

Last night,
what we lit
was more than a flickering,
vacillating flame of passion.
To date,
I can still count on one hand
how many times our first kiss
was stolen,
and left stranded
void of any reason
to believe our lips,
to ever be bold and naked enough
for honesty to undress
before us.

Last night,
your dimples
didn’t seduce me 
more than your sensual fingertips,
double dipping
into subtle skimming
along my back,
as if to read more
into my contour
than you’ve arched into mine.
I desired
to peruse the Braille
across your skin,
be fluent
in its idioms,
versed in the vernacular frame
of your curves.
We were as beautiful
as italicized calligraphy
losing our identities.

Last night, your lips,
were more than invited
to this inauguration ceremony,
but there was nothing formal
or orthodoxed in the way
we osculated.
We postulated
more sinuous signs
than we
were inclined to reveal.

I slipped,
you slid,
we sipped ourselves
into synaptic junctions
of stripped inhibitions,
reserved to be sensitived
by teasing tides of
rocking hips;
we were bent
to be shipwrecks
recovering our ruins
from a shore we both expected
to break upon.

Before last night,
memories of the you I loved
were finally being archived
into a forgetful past;
you were inscribed
into less of my poetry,
I penned
the majority
of our lives together
on a white flag
flailing regrets,
failing to realize
that you’ll always be
my inspiration for a lifetime,
a dream
never left aborted,
only docked in a bay
seeking voyage.