Dedicated to You

I wrote you a love letter,
in the form
of a budding rose
to let you know,
you’re more
than the sum of thorns
in your life;
more than
synonymous with beauty;
that you’re worth
holding onto tight,
when letting go
would take less might,
less courage,
less fight.

I wrote you a love letter
in the form of sunrays
climbing blindly
through your blinds
to remind you that time,
need not be first
on your mind,
need not be
the last of alarms
you set your life to;
that you’ll find me
in the minutest of moments,
the serenity of silence.

I wrote you a novel
in the form of the night
to remind you:
that no shade of darkness
is impenetrable to light;
that you will be and are
all the star
I could ever wish for and upon
and that,
the only reason
the moon disappears
is because you still feel like
the newest reason to blush to.

I wrote you
a love letter
in the form of a lullaby,
for the nights
you want to tuck in your mistakes
while they’re busy throwing tantrums,
when your pillow
has caught enough cases of your tears
and your covers
cocoons you in loneliness.

I wrote you a love letter
in the form
of you.
Fearfully and wonderfully made,
crowned
as my masterpiece on display.
You,
could bring me down
from the highest heavens
with silent prayers.
You,
could layer me with your sins
and I’d still die for you
once again.

You,
are my letter of love
to those who have forgotten how.
I wrote you
into the world with purpose,
framed you
from the dust of the earth
to ground those in upheaval,
carved you
from the ground up
to always be uplifted
when afflicted.

You
are my favorite verse
in this universe
that I memorize daily.
There is no shade
of mediocrity in your makeup,
no failure
in your foundation,
no fault
to blush over for you
are mine.

On Our Last Date

On our last date,
I was force-fed
disappointment
and choked
on your apathy.

As I watched your attention
unreluctantly
get kidnapped
within your pupils;
no one flinched
or batted an eye
as if they all knew:
no one searches
for lost cases.

Unprepared to brace this,
we sat face to face
and yet,
were the furthest apart
in attendance.
Proximity,
became a luxury
priced too high
for your eyes to buy.

I reached for your hand.
You pulled away as if
Anthrax was on my fingertips;
after being dipped
into disloyalty,
they might as well have been.

“Are we done here?!?”

The miasma of the question,
thick in the air lingering
heavy and low
poised to strike
at any answer I could offer.

Your eyes
were glazed with questions
that made your mascara run,
and I couldn’t summon
an unselfish enough reason
to justify you staying.

“Was it worth it?”

The question
left me more blank
than the waiter’s gaze,
more empty
than his tip jar.
By far,
she left me
with the fairest self-estimate
my ego ever alluded to.

On our last date,
I force-fed myself excuses,
chocked on my lies
and no one flinched,
or batted an eye.

Cavern of Despondency

She’s captive.
Slave to an emotion
her smile wishes
to be more foreign
than domestic,
more fictitious
than intrinsic.

It has evicted
every blush,
every grin.
Every joyful brim of laughter
it has shattered
from within.

She’s shackled.
Cuffed just enough
to grip life by the handful.

She hands you
apologetic smiles
sometimes dipped in sarcasm
just to silence you.

You’re not fighting
her battle,
you’re not winning
her war.

If you really
want to help
then stop asking her:
“Is everything okay?”
As if she doesn’t
megaphone the answer
in the concave of chest,
watch it echo in unrest
over her sloped shoulders
and avalanche her neck
into rolling boulders.

She’s crestfallen for a reason,
wears her heart on her sleeve
not because it’s in season.
Her deportment,
has fashioned enough of a statement
to warrant:
#is she always like this
#it’s just one of her phases
#we don’t really know
the troubles she faces but
I hope to God it’ll be over soon.

She’s consumed.
Despondent,
beyond hope.
Searching for the respondents
who’ll lift this iron yoke.

She’s baptized herself
in her tears
enough times to know,
that her newest feeling
is her highest low.

You want to know
how she got these scars?
She fell in love with depression.
He offered his commitment
as bracelets of endearment
and she
has been carving herself out ever since…

A Tale but Pending 

I wrote
to write you over,
to bury you in vowels
that didn’t sound so much
like broken vows.

Somehow,
you didn’t turn out to be
the picture your preface
framed you as.
I wondered who
you were illustrated by,
what author
would proudly claim you.

I must’ve
overlooked your foreword
to not see how forward
and inconclusive you would be.

How did I ever expect more
from someone missing
a dedication page?
I acknowledge,
I was desperate
to give you credit
for a work unfinished.

I want to edit you
into the oblivion
of my horizons,
christen you deep
beneath the waves
of a sunset
far too beautiful
to be tainted by you.

I wrote
to write you over,
bring about closure
to the film of us
spoiled by overexposure.
This was indeed
an all too familiar ending.
Regret is a cliché
unfamiliar with not trending
and we
were the sequel
of its tale but pending.

He Loves You

He loves you,
you know.

Despite the lack of
making it verbal
every time you utter it first he,
loves you.

Despite the fact that
eye contact is nonexistent
when the television
and your concerns
compete to channel his attention.

When
will it start feeling like
you’re relevant
long past a commercial break?

He promises to tune you in now,
although his lips mouth
programmed responses
so dauntlessly as if,
you wouldn’t catch on
to his sincerity
being remotely controlled.

You’re not being trolled.
This isn’t some
innocent joke gone rogue.
He isn’t
ignoring you;
but he has permitted
enough of the cares,
the doctor’s appointments,
life’s shares of disappointments
to disjoint him
from what he really loves and 
he really loves you,
you know.

So forgive him,
if presently
he seems more absent;
if his touch seems
a little unplugged from love;
if his words
no longer inspire you
to feel less of his mistakes
and more of his faith
in making this work.

This isn’t to say
you deserve mediocrity.
This isn’t to say
you deserve to reap
the cheap efforts of a heart
tired of beating itself in vain;
but if you’re staying
just know that he’s trying.

And yes,
it might take a while
to get it right,
but nothing worth building
was built over night.

Silent Confession

I woke up
with inspiration
wedged within,
like splinter beneath nail-bed,
bleeding for liberation.

Woke up
in veneration
that today?
Would not be a subtle iteration
of yesteryear.

I could’ve sworn
this morn would be the day.
The day that
chisel was introduced to stone,
ink encountered papyrus,
quills quenched thirst
in parchment papers,
pens made amends
with 8.5 by 11’s,
stylus would
script to screen,
voice would dictate
and Siri would scribe something monument!
Something golden,
something platinum,
something molten!
Something so fire,
firefighters would
standby to admire this
as a dire cause to retire.

SOMETHING!

Anything…

Lifetimes later,
the ghost of you has haunted
more than my heart from loving.

You were more
than a fleeting muse,
more than a mere distraction,
more than mortal tongue can fuse
futile words into a fraction
of what you meant to me.

What,
did you mean to me?
The question
your absence answers better
than I can conjure a response.

The easier humanity
made it for us to communicate,
the harder it was for me to tell you:

You are my sunshine,
my only sunshine.
You make me happy,
when skies are gray...”

The Right of Way

Just in case
my tongue speaks in thunder
and my words
fall harsh like hail.

Just in case
my consonants
seem constant in
constraining your confidence.

Just in case
my vowels seem self endowed
to foul the respect
unannounced in yours.

Accept my umbrella of apologies
until these lips I’ve learned to scale.
Forgive me,
for pillaging the sacred
in your thoughts,
the sacrament
upon your lips,
the wisdom in your words.

I’ll improve upon silence.
Compose an opus
to open the forest of my pride,
where its roots run deep
and branches reach
just as wide.

Be the first to admit
that if a man
thinks to interrupt
the flux of a woman’s thoughts
in her absence that he’s
still wrong.

So speak what’s on your mind
and I’ll mind what I speak.
They say that conversation
is a two way street,
and I’m sitting at a red light.
I believe,
the right of way
is yours.