Tag Archives: life

After You Left

The first day
after you left
I accidentally poured
two cups of coffee

the thought
of leaving yours undrunk
left me downing
two shots of vodka.



With all due respect
to Mr. Proenneke,
I have to humbly disagree
in regards to packing:
sadness does not dwell
in my carry-on.
The pages of my passport
are stamped with happy faces
blessing me with cheerful departure wishes
because they know
it does not matter to me
if where I am going
is as good as where I have been.
The very act of going
in the first place
is the heroin in my veins sir,
and if my mind is already a million miles away
exploring the unknown anything and everything
I figure I may as well join
and be damned if I’m not excited.

a response to Richard Proenneke’s quote

First Home

My imprint is no longer
in the memory foam beside your sleeping body,
my fingerprints don’t grace your windows
blurring outside images of strangers,
my breath isn’t on top of yours
creating sweet agreements, dinner plans,
my laughter has emptied
from hallways where my photograph once hung,
my footprints have been erased,
vacuumed away with time,
my name has been scratched out
of the home you made for it in your heart

so it’s time to move out.

January 29, 2017

When I think of you
I try to remember your smile,
the ones you wore on each occasion
and the way they stretched across your face
like the way your life
stretched out in front of you.
I listen to hear your voice sometimes,
ears perked to welcome the sweet sound
of the misheard lyrics
and tonedeaf vocals
you generously provided the world
and the silence I hear back
is deafening.
I picture your hands,
always moving, always animated,
always reaching out
to help anyone they could,
to hold anyone who needed support,
to throw lifelines to anyone who was drowning
in a sea of unfamiliarity.

When I think of you,
I forget to be angry sometimes
but I always remember
to miss you.

one year later

Leaving Unapologetically

I think about the boys
I never kissed goodbye,
the unfinished sentences
hanging like limbs
in empty rooms
I’ve left unlocked,
the words I never typed
and the poems I never penned.
Read between the lines then,
when I’m gone;
use my voice to fill each crevice
on your body,
to stretch your limbs out
and reach for my unfinished sentences,
to shove them back into your mouth
and try completing them.
This is where I leave you,
in a graveyard full of could-have-beens
surrounded by unaligned stars
without gracing you
with a half-decent explanation
of where or who
I am running toward.
And for the first time,
when I leave, I take with me
the thirst for another hurricane
having weathered one before,
and sour-tasting names
I’ve almost forgotten already.

when you leave, leave with peace