LOL 

Three letters long
was your reply.
The idea acronym
for when you catch
a case of the funnies and,
you were laughing out loud
all over again.

It’s not that I don’t love
your episodes of jubilance
to be authored by me.
I’d gladly sponsor
every moment
your lips part open
to release an ocean of felicity but,
your waves of elation
are no longer exclusively mine
to love and cherish.

Your reply
inundated me with questions
that I’m ill-prepared to accept like:
Does he at least
have his associates
in making you laugh
like I did?
What octaves
can he make you reach
without tickling/cheating
it out of you?
Show me his diploma
in humor
and I bet
I could spot the watermark
from your local flea market.

But to all of these you’ll tell me:
“He’s a good man.”

You see you left me questioning
where did I go wrong.
If I can still provide you
an inkling of joy
to pen into your day,
when did that stop being enough.

I realize
that I’m the butt of the joke
in this predicament.
One day
I’ll laugh out loud about this
but today,
your last laugh will be with him and
to that I say:
“May you laugh hard,
and laugh long,
just remember me when you do.
#lol”

Eden of a Mind

She asked:
“Where’s your favorite place?”

My sass
would reply in sarcasm,
my wit
would dismiss
the question altogether,
my humor
would reference something
short on laughs
by Amy Schumer,
but my honesty
teetered upon my tongue;
my lungs,
rehearsed a song unsung
and I remembered
that I was there.

I was,
dusting memories
off the dendrites
that held dwindling images of us
a quarter to never was
and half past never will be,
before arthritic hands of time
cropped you out
of my frame of mind.

I remembered,
we finished more
than each other’s sentences.
We were verses,
that flowed
into the echoes
of our heartbeats.

I remembered,
my favorite place
wasn’t a bus fare away,
an Uber of convenience,
a plane to catch
a subway to miss
or a ferry to board.

I remembered,
your thoughts
were the holiest of grounds
I’ve ever walked,
and surely,
the cathedral of your mind
I’ve always preferred
unlocked.

My favorite place,
is an Eden of a mind
I’m no longer welcomed to;
a mind I used to crave
even now I wish to say
that I seldom do.

When She Called Me Her Rose 

She called me her rose.
I blushed,
red as warning signs
to cease activity
but my smile
was rebellious to heed;
her heart,
a precarious beat
skipping capriciously
into rhythms that rhymed
with all things broken.
At the very least
the end of us would be
a harmonized tragedy.

Trust,
it is not that my soul
has ceased to be enamored
by the fragrance of your affection,
the virtues in your spine
I pine to hold,
the truth on your lips
I resign to sip,
the modesty of your hips
to my eyes you’ve sold,
but I can’t help but fold
when our hands,
in origami-like embrace,
still cause my pulse to race
in a ghost lap of promises
and intentions,
you trust these feeble hands
not to break.

Trust,
it is not
my lack of confidence in you
but rather in me.
Tell me,
how do you trust
a heart to nurture love
when it’s soil
has only experienced the toils
of failure,
disloyalty and abandonment?

Truth is,
I’m more prepared
to watch you stop tilling,
drop the plow,
run out of the rain
into the comfort
of someone else’s arms
where I’ll witness you flourish,
in the hands of a man
that has noticed
every cut,
scrape,
or wound
for a thorn
is masked by the beauty
of its roses.

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.

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.