This Time

 

If this one’s not what I think she is,
I don’t ever want another gut feeling.
I would have to assume going forward,
that any ounce of intuition could be inward treason.
I’ve done enough dreaming
for me to sleep the rest of my life without experiencing
another bit of cinema that plays with my ability to reason while awake.

If she’s never going to meet my mother,
so that I can explain through sighs and smiles why I never brought anyone else home,
I don’t want to know.
If she’s never going to meet my friends
so that I can whisper to each, see, this is why I never settled,
I don’t want to be told.
I just want to let my life slowly wilt away by a raining window sill
begging the sky to give back the sun
like all the dozens of roses I would have bought her just because.

If she’s not ever going to be more than an elaborate fantasy,
I would not care to rejoin the real world.
I just want to be where she is and watch undisturbed,
the way her hands swing at her waist when she walks slow,
how she tries to hide a laugh feared inappropriate.
I wait for her to look down and occupied, for those eyelids to close.
I watch her then as though it were consent given
and imagine when she sleeps, this is how her face rests.
How I would lie awake, head propped up by arm,
heart nestled at the foot of the bed like a loyal, softly purring pet.

In the time that she is not looking,
I can hear absolute calm like a button on a sound spa.
I can hear nothing else going on, maybe even God,
if he’s the voice in my head telling me that this time
I am not wrong.

Then, I wait for those eyelids to rise,
like the big reveal behind a showroom curtain.
Now here, my attention is truly arrested.
I have tried to indentify the particular hue like a rare species,
but just when I think I am sure, I see something new.
They are brilliant, deep, almost silver, pale,
sparkling, unpredictable, unparalleled
but most forcefully blue.

Our eyes meet two inches apart
while she talks
and I think right there I might tell her how beautiful
they truly are,
but to myself instead think, “Oh my God”.

The contrast of them against her light skin and dark hair,
it’s like something I’ve seen in a painting but could not afford to own.
So, if I never will, give me a reason to keep staring
like a tourist in a museum, give me conversation pieces
I can build on long enough to hold them just a little longer,
just a moment more, like sleep negotiated from the morning alarm.

This time has got to be different,
but I don’t want that to be a hunch or postulation.
I need it to be truth.
I write now so freely, where I was once lost
as though she were a Goddess of inspiration
with the strength to lift boulders of writing blocked.
So, if I can’t have her for life, just stop.

The Dance

 

The dance of eyes,
much like the business of reading smiles
in a room full of first encounters, is no sure gamble.
Friendliness and flirtation appear interchangeable
so often they should be advertised as well as our names
and placed on two sides of a quarter.
The odds no better than any other question staked on faith,
my nerves no less rattled waiting for an unbiased answer.
Heads, I ask her out and tails I save face.

Our eyes meet for more than a second
and it’s all I can think about for a week.
I think you are beautiful, but cannot speak.
I’m pretty sure some casual banter would help as practice or perquisite
if only I could both walk and move my lips.
If only you weren’t so busy and tall and built up like celebrity in my head.
If only I weren’t stunted by an inferiority complex and overweight,
I could enact one of various smooth operations I’ve imagined like a perfect date.

Your eyes catch mine and time appears to slow or pause
for some interpretation that never shows.
Are you thinking what I’m thinking? Is it possible after so long?
I haven’t been right more than once in the last ten years,
why would you be any different than the last Kate, Sam or Deanna?
Maybe you’re only meant for mind play
since I have exhausted the rest of my fantasies like a good song.
You could be what I deserve and I could be what you need,
but my percentage of error is higher than the possibility of either.

If only you weren’t looking back from time to time,
I could have been tired of this by now,
moved on to another subject like an attention deficit.
But your eyes are there, surprised as mine,
unexpected and almost squinting as if trying to solve or figure out.
I think you’re intrigued by the way our eyes meet like a riddle,
but unable to investigate further because it’s not the right time or place.
I’m scared that you suspect I’m weird or socially inept
because I am, a little.
But also because I’ve been so misunderstood
and it is so rare to find someone on the same wavelength.

When love at first sight is such a stretch,
I reach for the existence of an unspoken recognition.
There has to be a way to explain the way eyes become so fixed
to a stranger like well known features mistaken from a distance.
I first saw you at a prom dress fitting for some of our clients.
I remember most of what you were wearing, your hair and smile
but what grabbed me and wouldn’t let my line of vision waver,
were your eyes, blue but maybe green, in any case exceptionally kind and un-shy.
I don’t know why I stared, why I still repeatedly glance
like you are something I already know
but cannot being to answer.

There are people I see everyday
that I don’t feel the need to analyze.
Strangers with pretty eyes and gorgeous faces to match
that I do not engage or spend all hours trying to understand or see again.
Why are you so different, why are you so difficult to forget?
I want to know but cannot ask.
Instead I’m making mixed CD’s meant to prolong a feeling
that most likely is not reciprocated
and replaying seconds of menial interactions
like a high school touchdown on tape.

I guess it’s the chance that’s so intoxicating,
the possibilities confusing miniscule with monstrous
like flirtatious and friendly.
My heart is a dry vessel and so easily excited,
I really wish your eyes were not so inviting.
So blue and sometimes so green, always exceptionally kind and often un-shy,
if only I were not so afraid of being wrong,
I would ask why.

Thank God

 

I’m not a religious fanatic.
In fact you could say I’m quite passive and to be honest
I struggle with my faith a little every day.
But, I have witnessed a higher power at work
in the sincerity of your actions and the purity behind your most routine smile,
more like a white light
I’ll never need a near death experience in order to describe.

I’ve been drawn to a lot of women for superficial traits
I felt programmed to respond to
and kind personalities that turned out to be over projected ideals
I only wished were true.
I’ve been sure a thousand times about who was worthwhile.
Over and again I’ve taken risks motivated by a false positive
and it has paralyzed my ability to take certain chances.
But, there is something so therapeutic about your face
I wish it were a legitimate practice so that I could pay for regular sessions.
I would never be cancel or be late,
I might lie about how much better I was doing
just to prolong my treatment but once cured,
I would ask bravely one night if I could take you to dinner or a movie.
If you said yes,
I’d probably act cool as if that was exactly what I expected
but once I got in my car, I would exhale long and breathe rapidly.
I would close my eyes and smile a smile that suggests delirium.
I would bow my head to the steering wheel and right there
I would thank God for you, even if nothing else ever happened.

But if it did,
if you came into my life to stay,
my life would be so consumed by small prayers
they would work their way out of my head and drive me to my knees.
When she’s had such a bad day
that the most vibrant shades of blue from her eyes fade to grey, please..
may I never fail to make her laugh,
when we come to know each other like incomplete halves
and she depends on me for that.
When I come home from the worst of shifts,
she need only be there.
Just the sight of her sitting comfortably on our sofa,
legs folded, lap open, with a hand rested against her cheek
where the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen begins to form..
right there, I fully recover
and right then, I would thank God for you.
Most people are only so grateful for sudden wealth,
modern day miracles or gold plated awards.
I am not immune but I do not pray for those.
I don’t even play the lottery; I work for what I want
but still I am used to wanting things I cannot have
and I know very well, that could be just what you are.
But if you weren’t,
my life would be so full of prayers
I wouldn’t have the energy to ask for anything that didn’t start with your name.
I’d probably have to sneak the time so I was never caught being such a sap,
waiting until you got into the shower or were tied up on the phone,
then at our bedside I’d kneel, bow my head to the mattress
and there, in a whisper that was barely audible but perfectly true,
I would thank God for you.

Right here, right now,
I’m thinking this entire poem is really a prayer
and each stanza a daydream narrated
because my ability to take chances has been damaged
by turn down on top of failure
and I know too well, you could be one more waiting.

But if you weren’t,
Oh, I would thank God every day I woke up to your face.
As beautiful and as genuine as it is,
I know that someone probably already does.
So, I will hold these prayers in my head,
maybe even fold my hands when nobody’s looking.
When I’m alone I might even close my eyes and clear my throat as if about to speak
with absolutely no one on my sofa, in my bed, on the phone or in the room,
know it is then, that I am begging God, for you.

“No”

 

My heart is sick and slow.
I have felt alone in this condition
the way they make people feel in hospitals,
kept waiting in a drafty gown, sure that something intimate has been exposed,
thinking about every time you ever moved and who may have been around to see what.
Sitting on paper or sheets that have been washed so many times
they can only suggest a color that has been erased,
there are so many things that could be wrong
that never seemed possible before,
but I have those thoughts at home and work.

Something is broken or has been derailed,
something fragile and minuscule
that in other people would have been like a tonsil
would be my lungs.
Certain feelings of mine have this hair trigger instead of a mechanical lever
and standard of safety, it makes me angry and wonder how come?
Why couldn’t I be made of cold steel and reason,
things that make perfect sense and move forward,
why couldn’t I be anybody else?

I want to see her, but I don’t.
At first, any possibility I will exhilarates, gives purpose to my day
and makes my heart move in a way that only adrenaline junkies could explain.
But then, I have to remind myself that I’ve already been to the bottom
like the ending of a favorite book you cannot help but to recognize.
No matter how long you’ve waited to revisit the text, it won’t change that it’s already be read
and no matter how much I love seeing her face
won’t change that in the end, “no” is what she said.

She is so soft and kind, it’s easy to forget,
so feminine and docile, petite, proper and perfect,
I could not have really expected to hear yes, but God help me, I hoped.
When she smiles now, I have to remind myself
that it is only out of courtesy if not some God fearing compliance
because she is a God fearing woman
and a faithful servant,
no wonder she is such a bright white bulb every time I look.
My aura is dark and I would not dream of even graying her shadow in the sun,
how could I have thought we would ever belong?
The pairing of opposites share a page just long enough to teach a lesson,
then they do what nature intended and part.

I don’t want to see her, but I do.
I’m inclined to confuse coincidence with fate
like fortune and mistake
just because we share a street and a mild manner.
I see her and find myself swatting at swanky prose and wasted love letters
like mosquitoes in warm weather,
determined and swarming but just a moment from being noticed to death.

I see her and life has never been more sweet or unfair.
You may think you know how it feels,
when something you’ll never have
is dangled in your face like a kind of bait
that tests character
and seems to rule all behavior,
when what you don’t have influences how you treat everything else that you do.

I try to invest in other interests,
to give a damn period, for the sake of appearances,
for my responsibilities as an adult, a role model and a friend.
But, most days, there is just nothing I care about more
than seeing her again
and it outweighs every role that I play to them, every other sense of obligation
I was ever taught to honor, ever expected to keep.
I think a lot of people would be disappointed in me, if they knew.
How could I explain, but to say that I am a broken vessel or
a one track mind that has run out of room?

Over and over I tell myself she said “No”

“No”, she said.

She said, “No”.

I see my favorite face
and forget how the story ends,
each and every time, needing to be reminded
even as our eyes meet and I know that her smile is no longer a question
but an answer I have already been told.

Like That

 

For the last three weeks
a number of carefully planned scenarios
have been scratched and spawned,
modified and weighed.
The inside of my head littered like a writer’s desk
with a trail of crumpled up papers from the chair to the trash can.
What exactly, am I going to say?
I wanted to believe there was some comfort in preparation
but ever since I decided, there was nothing but fear and anxiety
coursing through my every thought like blood in veins.

I narrowed it down to a confessional approach and two ways to ask.
If my presence or our mutual client came up in conversation,
I would have said “well I’m glad to come here to see her,
but I’d be lying if I said she was the only reason I’m here so much.”
She’d say “oh really, what else is there?”
And I’d say, “It’s you, (long pause) I come for you”.
In a more direct approach I was going to look indifferently at some heart shaped decoration and then ask “do you have plans for Valentine’s Day?”
And when she said no (if she said no), I’d ask (staring shameless and suggestively)
“would you like to?”

I thought these were all viable options in a very specific and ideal situation,
but that’s just not what I had to work with on the day I picked.
I had given myself a deadline inspired by stupid movies and a pushy friend.
So, two days before the 14th of February, it went like this;
I reluctantly marched myself over to the school dance, then stood there like an idiot
for about 20 minutes watching her as if a flashing arrow was going to suddenly appear when it was the right time.
When I finally crossed the room and made eye contact she waved and looked a little confused like she knew I didn’t have to be there.
Ten minutes later, the DJ announced the last song and said goodnight.
It was then that I forced myself over and heard myself ask
“could I talk to you for a second?”
I turned around and started for the hallway but not before bumping into another staff,
I apologized and took a deep breath,
I felt her hand on my back and she followed me through the door,
not knowing what to expect.

For months, maybe a year before these last three weeks
a number of intricate fantasies
have overpopulated the better half of my being.
My head trapped in a kaleidoscope, feeling and feeding
on love songs and Hollywood endings like a euphoria junkie.
High, just trying to imagine or thinking I know who this woman really is,
what she’s like and how it would be to have her in my life.
I am never sure but this time I was,
maybe because ten years ago this really impossible, incredibly beautiful thing happened
and I needed to believe it could again,
that my instincts could be the rule rather than the exception.
But in reality, that was a modern day fairytale, my once in a lifetime deal
and this was not like that.

She waited patiently for me to speak,
her blue eyes in the high light more authentic and less intimidating now
than in the dim cottage where I’ve only held them in glances.
The words ran through my head before I forced them from my mouth.
It was my last ditch attempt line, the most concise way to ask in the event of panic.
I felt my entire body trembling and knew this was the most appropriate course of action.
“This is probably crazy to even ask, but, would you…. have dinner with me…sometime?”
“Like um…?” I could see by hand gestures and squinted eyes
that she was struggling to understand and was quick to respond;
“yes, like that”.
But she still wanted to clarify; “romantic?”
“yes” I say again feeling in the middle of an out of body experience.
My more conscious self now crouched up in a corner behind this trembling front,
her chin quivers like a child and rests upon knees pulled into her chest as she rocks herself reiterating this unanswered prayer “no, no, no, not again, not again….”
I digress, but it felt exactly, like that.

“Me????” she asked leaning back while pressing her little white hand to her chest
like a southern belle accused of something that only happens in the North.
“You”, I clarify once more.
“Oh, I don’t………” I cut her off by saying “okay”
but she went on “It’s not crazy, I’m not freaked out or anything, but I’m sorry, no.”
“It’s ok, I just had to ask”, I explain now beginning to retreat,
taking a step back, keeping one hand raised in regret and one over my mouth,
wishing I could vanish in a cloud of smoke instead of having to walk all the way to my car and then drive twenty miles home.
“I’m…I’m flattered”, she turns back to say with a smile before leaving.
And I think to myself, “ah, that’s what was missing,
the obligatory line” then for some reason and not necessarily in this order I say;
“Okay” and “thanks”.
What?? What did I just thank her for? Everybody has to say that, ugh.
My legs felt like cinder blocks and my head like I was already drunk.
I raced to the liquor store and managed to be polite to the cashier.
I wanted to be angry with someone, but there was only myself.
I wanted to break things, drive my shitty car into a big tree or just SCREAM!
But mostly I just wanted to get home and drink until I couldn’t think anymore,
couldn’t replay what just happened, couldn’t be asked to accept it was real
or be told that moving on was eventually going to feel like a reward for the risk taken.

In the last few days,
my head has been my most unforgiving, well informed, worst enemy.
The details have been fresh and my stomach is sick and soured from liquors mixed.
I can’t drink anymore and I can’t fall asleep without thinking.
My mind scrambles in a deep, sad desperation to cling to a new fantasy
that I have implanted curiosity and in time she will look at me with new eyes.
THAT IS PATHETIC!
But, if you try to take it away from me, I might just try to claw yours out.
Like a dangerously delusional patient, I cannot be told what I really am, not yet.
I have become ravenous in need and I need a reason to get up in the morning.
I cannot close my eyes and see nothing,
my head has been emptied like a suspicious locker
and there are things you cannot just take from somebody’s personal space
without sufficient notice, without putting something better or just as good in its place.
Not so abruptly, not so fully.
Not like that.