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.