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.

Tell Her Before

Tell her, 
before your alarm clock 
casts her into the oblivion 
of your dreams, 
before the night 
cocoons you into slumber too deep
to hold her ‘neath the moon.

Tell her, 
before your youth 
steals your attention 
with quadratic formulas 
and dates you’ll soon forget, 
before maturity 
has ambitions, 
bills and retirement plans 
as priorities.

Tell her, 
that the day the stars 
were baptized in her tears,
they bore the night sky 
as their cross, 
made their pilgrimage 
across her irises
to be one amongst her pupils.

Tell her, 
she need not bathe
in Milky Way 
to accentuate her beauty. 
Glasses and curls 
can indeed be gorgeous.

But most importantly, 
be honest. 
Let her know that
whenever she exits the room, 
she vacuums out the air 
with her departure.

Let her know, 
that coherent sentences
are nigh impossible to construct 
in her presence;
that you feel 
the letters destruct 
into awkward silence
because THAT 
is just how speechless she makes you.

Tell her, 
that you miss her. 
Show her,
that you love her.

It’ll be more 
than the silence of my fears 
ever led me say.

To be continued

Before last night,
I was an optimistic skeptic
with a synthesized spine
pining to support
an aborted dream,
a deserted hypothesis,
a hope
well nigh stifled down throat,
trampled by the reality
that love
never seems to beat
synonymously between lovers
with antonymous definitions.

Our chemistry,
needed no catalyst.
No enzyme
could accelerate us
into zero gravity
fast enough
to fuse our fall,
into the unanimous decision
that one of us,
will be forced to watch
the others’ orbital decay,
cremation upon descension
into an unforgiving ozone
of nostalgic skylines.
But the death of us,
will be brilliance ignited.

Last night,
what we lit
was more than a flickering,
vacillating flame of passion.
To date,
I can still count on one hand
how many times our first kiss
was stolen,
and left stranded
void of any reason
to believe our lips,
to ever be bold and naked enough
for honesty to undress
before us.

Last night,
your dimples
didn’t seduce me 
more than your sensual fingertips,
double dipping
into subtle skimming
along my back,
as if to read more
into my contour
than you’ve arched into mine.
I desired
to peruse the Braille
across your skin,
be fluent
in its idioms,
versed in the vernacular frame
of your curves.
We were as beautiful
as italicized calligraphy
losing our identities.

Last night, your lips,
were more than invited
to this inauguration ceremony,
but there was nothing formal
or orthodoxed in the way
we osculated.
We postulated
more sinuous signs
than we
were inclined to reveal.

I slipped,
you slid,
we sipped ourselves
into synaptic junctions
of stripped inhibitions,
reserved to be sensitived
by teasing tides of
rocking hips;
we were bent
to be shipwrecks
recovering our ruins
from a shore we both expected
to break upon.

Before last night,
memories of the you I loved
were finally being archived
into a forgetful past;
you were inscribed
into less of my poetry,
I penned
the majority
of our lives together
on a white flag
flailing regrets,
failing to realize
that you’ll always be
my inspiration for a lifetime,
a dream
never left aborted,
only docked in a bay
seeking voyage.


Whoever knew it could be
an instant coffin wheeling off
the pealed and sloughed,
to inhume the unsuspecting so
to the land
of the unfleshed.

This strangling metal
your essence meshed into
knew no mercy,
no gender,
no age,
know  you.
You, its bride to be,
would be the centerpiece,
the metallic origami hung
in my subconscious,
in a ballroom floor
polished with my regret,
dancing to a track
that’d forever ignite my memory
as to why
I’m still trying to purge the blood
off these severed dendrites.
I just wish
words came with receipts.

The following year
you would’ve became
an architect,
but tonight’s new moon
marks the day you turned
painted in tombstone gray.
Your liquefied blueprint
stained the interior,
and the shards
of your shattered dreams
cut the deepest.

I’m sitting here
in the passenger seat,
as I do on most nights.
The windows down
just how you liked it;
and this warm wind reminds me
of the random strands
that used to caress my face.
As I held my heart in place
and my pulse matched your pace
you’d reach for my hand,
and downshift my worries,
patted my thigh and
said that I’d make it alive;
but no one’s here now
to say that about you.

Misty eyed,
I look in the side view mirror,
raise a picture of you,
view the broken image
and pray that the words it claims
are true.
“Objects in the mirror
are closer
than they appear.”