Twice in My Life

Twice in my life

I was mistaken

for someone else

Twice in my life

an imposter came

and took my place

The first time

it was my second love

It was someone I loved

The second time

it was my first love

There was nothing I loved

before I loved poetry

And what I loved

before I loved

will wage a war for me

As I walk among

the false idols

and fallen angels

the truth will give itself

to the light

The first time, my love

you will never know

how much I loved

The second time

all the world will know

The Age of Love

People ask me how old I am, and I smile. It is impolite to ask a woman her age. But I don’t mind at all. I tell them I am merely growing into my skin, that I have always been an old soul, and they ask me,

doesn’t your soul remain the age you were when you first fell in love?

Well, I answer, love is older than time, and then I tell them about you—and how I have loved you for a very, very long time.

Seasons

If you were to choose a season, which would it be?

The golden dunes of summer, wild and free

The quiet breath of winter—trees bare and stark

Or spring’s flowers and her honeybees?

Would you swim in the ocean or walk in the park?

Or catch the sunset before it grows dark?

What page of the calendar would you mark?

I’d choose fall—the season you came back to me

Fleeting

All love is fleeting—even when it lasts a lifetime

Only So Much

There is only so much you can say about a man who hurts you so covertly, so gradually. The tiny paper cuts that come one after another, so measured and subdued. It barely hurts, until it does. Yet your pain is visible to no one, sometimes, not even to yourself. There is no blood to mop up, no broken glass to sweep. Not a trace of anything untoward until it gets too much, and suddenly you are a wild animal thrashing, baring your teeth, and when they ask you why, you have nothing to show, no answer to give.

Grief

Grief is like a flower

the way it blooms

and blooms. It is

a heart-shaped wound

that never closes

A mouth, always wanting

More love is found in grief

than in love itself

Like a diamond

that can only be cut

with another diamond

grief is the only thing

that cuts through love

Between Us

There is always something between us, my love: a closed door, an endless corridor, a locked screen. There you are under the lamppost at dusk. Is it summer or are we still in spring? I can see you across the road, arms above your head waving hello. In my chest, something crashes hard as a head-on collision. And suddenly you grow further away like gravity turned on its side, you are up, and I am down. Here comes the feeling of falling I’d forgotten, tried to bury beneath the years. Do you see me anymore, my dear, do you trust yourself now? Does it make you smile to know you were right about me all along, somewhere deep down, does it kill you?