Our Future Selves

A year from today, 
we’ll break up 
into the current of another lover’s love,
their stream of thoughts  
we probably aren’t worthy of,
the construct of which 
will leave us itching 
at our stitches of disunity.

Searching for impunity 
in his hugs,
her kisses,
his gentle tugs,
her patient spirit.

He won’t understand you, 
she’ll grow indifferent to me;
he’ll remain faithful to you, 
and she will discover 
why I’m her favorite dose of love 
yet the worst type of lover.

You’ll see my smile 
fade in his laughter, 
I’ll witness your tears
fall onto the pages of her chapter.

A year from then
we’ll still be guilty of stealing 
enough of each other’s lives;
our partners 
will question our suspicions.

The honesty in his motives 
will not get you to confess, 
her imploring 
will feel like a needle 
for a spinal tap, 
my response 
will be paralytic silence.

They’ll both tell us, 
we’re perfect for each other. 
He’ll be rocking 
a version of my stubbornness 
over his shoulder, 
she’ll be tucking in 
your dimples in another room 
and after slumber sets 
in its infancy, 
they will both question:
“So, where do we go from here?”

While You’re Up There

While you’re up there
carving clouds
and scraping star dust, 
I hope you think of me.

When you touchdown 
in a different city, 
may the rays of its lights, 
the curb of its streets 
and unfamiliar faces 
do their best 
to welcome you
to the change of pace.

When you unravel,
get settled 
into the warmth 
of foreign sheets 
I wonder 
if you’ll still dream of me.

Truth be told, 
I missed you 
when the news 
of your departure 
boarded the plane of my reality.

Your itinerary 
seemed to camouflage 
with escape routes 
of all those who left me
embracing hands with loneliness 
for company.

But I will wait for you,
pray for safe return 
to love you while here 
and even more 
while you’re away. 

Doomed to Fail (aka DTF)

She said,
her optimism is dying daily.

Fading fast 
in the hands of men 
who love to touch 
but never buy, 
show interest 
solely to shy 
away from commitment, 
leave her questioning
if the price tag of her morals 
are indeed too steep.

How long 
will they attempt to convince her 
that her worth should be on clearance,
her dignity 
on layaway,
her mind 
filing for bankruptcy 
when they can’t manage 
to hold a deep conversation adequately.

They 
tell her she’s loved instead 
with the receipt of their words 
ready to purge 
every accountability of the verb. 
Their insurance, 
is an assurance to leave 
she receives with 100% guarantee, 
no questions asked
when “putting out” 
no longer warrants them to stay.

She says, 
her optimism is daily dying.

Dying in the womb 
of her next relationship
before she ever meets 
Mr. Next. 
You’ll call her cold, 
even with 
your fingers on her thermostat. 
When 
did you ever think 
“DTF” 
was an acceptable 
“pickup line?”

She’s telling you 
that she’s losing faith in us!

And I know 
you’re not listening
because the game is on, 
you’re not listening 
because you only tune her in 
during commercial breaks, 
you’re not listening 
because children stay silent 
when adults are speaking.

When YOU 
finally learn 
how to approach a woman, 
you’ll probably expire
before the occasion occurs, 
but if you don’t, 
“DTF”
will still be 
an inappropriate approach, 
your imagination 
will at large 
be unimaginative, 
at worst 
the rejections will embolden you 
to use it more, 
at best 
you’ll still be 
doomed to fail.

If Ever

I doubt
I could ever be mad at you.
God forbid
if ever I do,
I’ll pay myself the fare
of disappointment
and shame
for reaching that destination.

If ever,
a raging passion
swells irrationally within,
a wave of fits
curl the corner of my lips,
a tide rises high
above the dams of self-control,
let it be broken
upon your shores
in the form of a love
unbound.

If ever,
this tempest,
this cyclonic life of mine
gets the better of me,
just know
your love has already
taken the best of me.

If ever,
you feel obliged to question
whatever I’m feeling,
you may safely
sever the thought
of maleficent intent.

My adoration of you
wields more patience
than tolerance.
So whatever the inquiry
you have levered upon your tongue,
if ever it be:
“Are you mad at me?”
I desire you to know
indubitably,
the answer will ever be
never.

Tell Her Before

Tell her, 
before your alarm clock 
casts her into the oblivion 
of your dreams, 
before the night 
cocoons you into slumber too deep
to hold her ‘neath the moon.

Tell her, 
before your youth 
steals your attention 
with quadratic formulas 
and dates you’ll soon forget, 
before maturity 
has ambitions, 
bills and retirement plans 
as priorities.

Tell her, 
that the day the stars 
were baptized in her tears,
they bore the night sky 
as their cross, 
made their pilgrimage 
across her irises
to be one amongst her pupils.

Tell her, 
she need not bathe
in Milky Way 
to accentuate her beauty. 
Glasses and curls 
can indeed be gorgeous.

But most importantly, 
be honest. 
Let her know that
whenever she exits the room, 
she vacuums out the air 
with her departure.

Let her know, 
that coherent sentences
are nigh impossible to construct 
in her presence;
that you feel 
the letters destruct 
into awkward silence
because THAT 
is just how speechless she makes you.

Tell her, 
that you miss her. 
Show her,
that you love her.

It’ll be more 
than the silence of my fears 
ever led me say.

They Were Right

If they told me
that I’d still love you
well after your frame 
would delineate your age 
less gracefully than you hoped for;
your skin, 
abused by life’s solar flares, 
would completely eclipse the glow 
within the pigment of your youth;
I probably would’ve ran away from you, 
far into your future self 
to tell you, 
for better or for worse, 
they were right.

For no sunset, 
can embezzle the radiance 
in your smile, 
the luster 
in your laughter 
that I’m still dazzled by.

Sundials 
are rendered useless
in your presence,
their shadows still question
the degree of relevance 
in light of you;
for no measurement 
can quantify my admiration
or adoration for you.

For your love, 
immutable through 
the vicissitudes of seasons 
we never planned to weather,
posed as the apex 
of timeless memories, 
of a priceless virtue
framed suitably 
within vows.

So if you, 
are ever to doubt 
my affection just know, 
that I was, 
that I am, 
and always will be 
in love with you.

Only Human

She has a switchblade
for a tongue on left days;
converts it into a
substitute for creamer
on right days
both
served ripe without reserve.

She’s been cursed
with a heart to love deeply
those who can’t;
blessed
to forgive deeper
those who won’t.

She’s been dressed
in more distress
than she can rehearse
how to heal in front of you.

She’s smiling
while her soul
continues to limp
on crutches.
Her ribcage
couldn’t protect her heart
from feeling so empty,
so exposed,
so vulnerable to trust
foreign hands not to fold
under the pressure
of a genuine friendship.

It’s not that she’s mean,
or sour,
nor any of its synonyms
for that matter but,
sometimes,
she too bleeds.
Sometimes,
she chooses to show her calluses
from trying so hard
to gain your acceptance,
your attention,
your love.

Sometimes,
she’s more human
than hero.
Sometimes,
salvation is masked
in surrender.
Maybe she too
forgets how to fly