A Tale but Pending 

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

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.

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.



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.

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.

His Eye is On The Sparrow

When you discover
that every tear shed
will not purge you
of his memories;
that every fallen drop
isn’t equivalent
to the distance
he falls away from you;
that your
rain-forest eyes won’t reset
to detect a love
better felt than seen.

When you unearth the value
in your coarsest traits,
disassociate his appraisal of you
with his attention.
Your self-worth
has always been
of his last name.

When you realize
your loyalty,
your commitment,
your efforts to
“stay the course”
while he detours
to another’s arms were all
to strengthen your knees
to kneel amidst the rocks
and find God
in the hardest of places.

When you realize
that every sip
of his rejection
is followed by the aftertaste
of finding yourself,
it’ll still taste bitter,
you’ll still want to chase it
with a gallon of whys.

It still won’t make you feel
any less used,
your time
no less wasted,
your love
no less abused.

But you
will love yourself better.
You’ll discover
that tears can indeed be for joy.
You’ll unearth
the precious,
the beautiful,
the richest
of jewels in you.

Most importantly,
you’ll flourish in his absence
when you’re alone
in His presence,
for His eyes
are always
on the sparrow.

Let it Be Known

Let it be known,
that this woman 
is probably out of my league. 
She’s probably laid siege 
to many a hearts, 
probably parted 
many apart 

But her gaze 
is vacuum potent; 
black holes soaked in 
cause cataclysmic shifts 
of your peripheral vision;
wouldn’t have seen this coming.

Let it be known, 
she’s hurricane, 
dirt devil. 
She’s whirlwind, 
a cold spin
and unsettled.

I may be misjudging
her super powers,
potentially hyperbolized 
her silent eyes but, 
she’s wowed me in ways 
I’d still be honest 
to exaggerate.

Let it be known, 
she’s all 
and none of these things. 
Truth be told she’s 
very much human,
with a mouth, 
and a nose, 
and earlobes;
but her heart 
has chosen to part with mine.

Quite possibly, 
she fancies me. 
She’s laid siege 
to my soul so, 
let it be known 
that I’ve never been known 
to let it be but 
I surrender, 


When I first confessed to you 
that I wrote poems, 
you asked me 
to recite one.

My untied, 
string of thoughts
tripped over themselves.
My tongue 
was just as much of a klutz
with whatever verbiage 
it managed to spill over you
as my pulse, 
fluttered up 
the tunnel of my throat
to convince me 
to just wing it.

and bashful 
was the man I grew into 
and you –
could you not wait 
in such dire suspense?
Can you not stare 
with such intent?

You are, 
by no means
relieving the pressure
with those eyes. 
bold and beautiful irises, 
hugging your pupils 
like arms do orphans, 
framed in frameless lenses
ordained to maim my senses 
into shock and awe.

are so utterly Kodak friendly, 
my brain 
keeps my eyelids shutter speed 
to non-existent just 
to take in your beauty 
in every blinking moment. 
I can’t help but keep 
my aperture open.

I guess,
what I’m trying to say is:
give me something to write about. 
I want to paint you 
by the number 
of childhood memories 
and fears you still think 
hide in your closet, 
your darkest corners, 
before the world 
ignited your monsters 
and revealed them to be 
more human than not.

Tell me, 
what drives you 
and then
what drives you crazy. 
I’ll get licensed for both
to help you steer.

Share the ingredients 
to your passions
and we’ll have a 
seasoned conversation for dinner, 
an entree of flavors 
I desire to savor with you.

Show me 
your insecurities, 
your impregnable doubts
and castle of failures 
and I promise, 
to build you a bridge 
over your moat of depression
and discouragement.

When you first asked me 
to recite you a poem, 
it’s not that I didn’t hear you 
the first time, 
nothing drowned out your request. 
It’s just that, 
no poem 
could ever reconstruct 
the genuine 
in your smile.