They’re understanding.

They’re meeting.
They’re chatting.
They’re laughing.
They’re liking.
They’re understanding.
They’re leaning.
They’re kissing.
They’re goodbye-ing.

He’s calling.
She’s answering.
He’s thanking.
She’s rejoicing.
He’s offering.
She’s agreeing.
He’s planning.
They’re scheduling.

They’re remeeting.
They’re enjoying.
They’re questioning.
They’re debating.
They’re compromising.
They’re delighting.
They’re relocating.
They’re cuddling.

They’re communicating.
They’re walking.
He’s stopping.
He’s kneeling.
She’s gasping.
He’s proposing.
She’s accepting.
They’re loving.

They’re disagreeing.
They’re arguing.
She’s yelling.
He’s withdrawing.
He’s grimacing.
She’s scowling.
They’re apologizing.
They’re forgiving.

They’re moving.
They’re building.
They’re decorating.
They’re bickering.
They’re giggling.
They’re negotiating
She’s settling.
They’re living.

She’s talking.
He’s ignoring.
She’s pressing.
He’s freezing.
She’s trying.
He’s mocking.
She’s crying.
He’s laughing.

She’s packing.
He’s imploring.
She’s glowering.
He’s begging.
She’s finishing.
He’s pleading.
He’s realizing that
she’s leaving.

Image by congerdesign from Pixabay


Give Me Your Arm

and I’ll give you mine

Give me your arm;

I will wrap it around me

on nights when I don’t dream,

when my mind has been as blank

as it is in the daytime,

and I want the vibrancy

of knowing I’m safe and warm.

Give me your arm;

use it to reach out to me

like grabbing for the rope

of a boat that is about to start

drifting away from the dock,

and I’ll use mine to reach back to you,

knowing that even with both of us

filling the distance,

we will never feel close enough.

Give me your arm;

I’ll interlace my fingers in yours,

locked together and prepared to face

the rolling wind descending from

the mountainside

when the world threatens to end.

Give me your arm;

you know I’ll use it well.

Photo by Josh Hild from Pexels

Lover, Here Are My Words

Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her;
If you can bounce high, bounce for her too,
Till she cry “Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover,
I must have you!”

—Thomas Parke D’Invilliers

A million secrets whispered

muffled by that which is crystallized

and my mouth a swollen, sullen thing

that cannot produce any heat

nor passionate verses

when surrounded by such chill and char.

But, lover,

look at the frost–

how it glistens.

The whole world is melting

and I let tears stream down my face

to match the damp outdoors–

dripping off my nose and onto my lips

so I can taste the brine within me

when I part those lips to speak.

But, lover,

look at the sun–

how it radiates.

And I just let all these words flow out of me–

no, fall out of me–

when I opened my jaw in this heat.

I uncapped my pen

and left an inky, blobby mess on the page

with scribbled words nearly indecipherable.

But, lover,

look at the bounty–

how it is.

Photo by Andreea Diana Sintean from Pexels

Of the New Year

awake and alive

When I think of the new year,

I think of early morning walks

when the sun is just about

to send streamers of peach and delicate rose

across the sky

to celebrate the beginning of the day.

I think of how I will be awake and alive

to join in the gaieties,

how I will conduct an orchestra of songbirds

as they first begin to tell of each dawn–

the poetry of their whistles

stating their trust that it is always worth rejoicing

in a beginning.

When I think of the new year,

I think of saving memories,

of sealing them to pages of a book with glue,

of scratching down words so as to never forget,

of decorating the days with doodles and stickers.

I think of living life in a memorable way

and making sure those memories stick

and learning to be content with the small things

by proclaiming them noteworthy, too.

Photo by Binti Malu from Pexels



We fit together,

not like puzzle pieces,

not compensating for one another’s juts and grooves;

besides, we are each whole in our own rights.

Rather, we’re tiles;

we lie neatly beside each other just like we’re supposed to

with a little grout to fill any gaps,

grout that has been gingerly wiped from our faces with a careful hand,

so that together we can form a vibrant mosaic.

Photo by rotekirsche 20 from Pexels

It’s the Journey

a destination, a question

He spreads out a map between them on the table of the diner, then smooths it with a flat palm. He hovers his pointer finger of the map, moving it around in circles, the gestural equivalent of a filler word. Finally, he presses his finger onto the paper. A destination. He raises an eyebrow. A question.

Staring at his eyes rather than the map, she sips her black coffee, just as bitter as she is inside.

Where on this map was he a year ago, a month ago, a week ago? He was with her yesterday, but even then, his mind was far away.

His eyes intensify. The question has remained unanswered for too long.

She drops her gaze and looks at the paper for the first time. At the tip of his nail is a tiny town a few hours’ trek away, just off the highway–a place she had never once considered going.

She has never been much of a follower, and she’s never been much of a risk-taker either, preferring to forge her own path exactly where she is. The oxymoron of that has never been lost on her, but she likes it that way. He was always a wrench in that oxymoron, one that was usually at a far enough distance that she could ignore it.

But not right now. Not while he is right here.

He is going to that destination at the end of his pointer finger no matter what she does. She knows that. Among all the choices she has, making him stay is not one of them. She’ll have to choose something else, make a compromise that she doesn’t want to make.

She raises her head so that her eyes meet his again as she gives a forced smile and nods.

Photo by Negative Space from Pexels