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.


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?”

Only Because You Asked

I’d like to spin your voice
into slits of vinyl;
hear the dips skip into static,
fabricate your flaccid,
casual vowels into acid,
corrode your syllables
into a skeleton of coarseness
to graft into your spine
to tell me face to face
how you really feel;
because somehow
I don’t find a two a.m text saying:
“It’s over…”,
clear enough.

I’ve spent two and a half afterlives
purging the purgatory of my existence
from the faults you claimed
quaked us in halves too distant
to pigment with closure.

I’ve watched the tectonics of your logic
shift us into shapes
we sift ourselves through
searching for better yous
in hims and hers
while hinging from the clefts of whys
I’d die to suicide from
to find a better us.

But I can’t resurrect
an atom of myself
to loathe an iota
of your essence.

I’m still dreaming to live
an unpredictable past;
to fasten the shadow
of the me before you
to fractured ankles
of my future,
in hopes of living this present
above my tombstone.

Because there’s no one else
I’d rather see rain dance
under amber lights of night,
to sweep streets
with ballerina-like feet
absent of grace;
to wake puddles
muddled with my complacency
to your rejection.

Because Cupid’s aim is amiss,
the vintage of Valentine
births the villainous in you
and the death
of everything merry I’d marry;
to hear the verity
in another’s “I do…”

I’m addicted to the taste
of your amalgamations,
yet nothing
will ever be as hallow
as the hollowed moments spent
soaking digital repudiation
through naive pupils
and having their tears confess
to eardrums that’d shiver
at the thought of listening.