claire can't see me.

a mom who is cooler in words than in life.

half half poetry month remnants.

her name

ive never said this louder
than a whisper pushed into closed palms
on a train headed north
with an empty winter jacket
watching barren trees wave goodbye
to my reflection on the window
& my legs resting on the unoccupied space beside me
i distinctively remember my phone
no ring
no call for my return
or pleas for explanation of missing weekends
no concerned voice to swallow me whole
& demand my safe arrival
i tried to wait
but my ticket was paid for with
the weight of your response
nothing was left
between us
or in me
by the time I reached back home
i had left the whole story
in a city too crowded to be noticed
my comings & goings were never detected
until you asked me
why i left
completely turned away from you
embracing the blank night
that hung between the remnants
of unclaimed lovers
you deserved an answer
but i never told you
that i liked the name
coraline
i only whispered the letters into
cursive prayers
etching them into my
empty hands.

for a.k.

you can’t write a love song
for someone else’s husband
no matter how bitter the name of his wife taste on your combined tongues
piano chords can’t disguise betrayal
but it can turn it to a radio friendly excuse
for star crossed lovers to dance silently under
& i might even hum along
sometimes
cause the artist in me understands the complication
of mistaking a muse for a lover
in the wrong light
decisions can be made easier
but since a spotlight follows you on & off stage
while you try to sing empowerment into the backbones
of women possibly left broken by missing husbands
i’d think you’d understand
my hesitation to clap.

 

“im a recovering undercover over lover/recovering from a love i cant get over”-badu

the wind stopped by today
told me you were in love
& left as quickly as it came
with no further details of how
or when
you changed the meaning of space
& needing it
she must be an astronaut
or something else that im obviously not
but if you woulda left breadcrumbs
i woulda figured out a way to become it
i’m something of a poet
so i coulda similed myself to your liking
it woulda been worth the midnight oil
but instead im left unchanged & unsure
if i fit my own image of love
any more
cause i saw you as my reflection
& now i don’t see you in me at all
love is blind like that
& i didnt foresee this outcome
thought it would be too cliche
too redundant
to happen to me again
this time i loved harder
broke bled bent & believed
beyond any doubt that i could
out love you enough
to take on your burden
of loving me
that I could love us enough for us
& survive off the droplets of whatever runneth over from my outpouring heart
i thought I would drown
any pause you had
any silence
any sigh or shrug
any straight to voicemail call
i thought i could outlast
your doubts
your second glances in opposite directions
your fidgety fingers in my hands
i tried to bribe venus
& offer my allegiance under any other
planet that was found more compatible
for you
because I knew
pluto was no longer considered significant enough to draw you in
& i tried every trick in the book
to keep you
but you werent into keeping
another character flaw of mine
you said
& before i could try to change that
you put on your space suit
& apologized to the wind
for taking too long.

rough draft

“i know things fall apart/intentions shatter” -The Roots

i never rewrite poems

because i don’t regret the first draft
i’ve gotten plenty of practice being the mistake
in the love lines of some boy’s palms
my intentions are always misinterpreted
by lonely fortune tellers
& earth signs fascinated by the dangers of waves

by you

& i can’t edit me out of your life’s story
just to save face
from the future advice that you’ll give your sons
regarding love
but i’ll accept the blame

for you

i tried to offer different versions
of the truth
sweet on the tongue tales
sultry sung lullaby’s between sheets & lips & letters home
& you probably didn’t notice that love
in a milder form
was always the foundation of that
that i had fashioned a hammock out of lies
for you to comfortably sleep in
without being awaken by the door closing behind me
i always knew i would leave
i just thought you would have been ready by then
i had spent many nights trying to strengthen your spine
stretched out in my therapy
i massaged your ego into form
& hoped that you’d see yourself as art
but instead you made me your museum
& gave credit only to the artist & not the muse
so i had no choice

i left you

like an incomplete poem
no hope to be had in the conclusion
no moral of the story
& no further points to be made
i just have to accept the blame
& the fact that
i never rewrite my poems.

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