28 April 2009

make believe

i was right when i wrote
everything would be different.
i just didn't realize
to what extent
or the reason
hadn't happened yet.
no one could have foreseen
what took place on that
fateful night.
i wouldn't know where to
if i even want to begin.
if i write it down
it might come back to life.
we've worked so hard to bury the memory
to forget
what we did.
like you can ever really forget
something of that magnitude.
that can't be counted as
an excuse.
to write it down
makes it real.
as it is
i am convinced we dreamed it up.
a waking
of a dream
a dream.
like the monsters under your bed
and the skeletons in your closet.
pull the covers over your head and you are
fill the closet with winter coats
skis and golf clubs and board games
and the skeletons will stay
buried, deep within.
this nightmare event
you can bury it.
and we did.
or at least we tried.
or at least
i tried.
maybe i was the only one
who wanted to forget.
to forget.
to keep things
to move on
or around
but not through.
to sidestep the
of our
was i the only one
who did not want to
talk it through?
who remained
about what it was.
if you don't ever talk about it you can pretend
that it was meaningless
that it was trivial
that it never happened.
i can still pretend
yes, i can still pretend.

21 April 2009

this is happening

every so often
i can hardly remember
the sound of your voice
the awkward rhythm
in your walk
i'm losing you
all over again

18 April 2009


broken nails and smudged lipstick
there's a run in your tights
your dress is torn
you are falling apart
but baby
it's beautiful

17 April 2009

she sells shellfish

i don't mean to be selfish
but i need you right now
i'm not trying to be selfish
but i need you to be here
i don't want to be selfish
but i need you to love me
i shouldn't be so selfish
but i need you to care
i know i'm being selfish

but so are you.

10 April 2009

somewhere there is a story

all of a sudden i'm home again.
only it's not home anymore.

just a house.
just a bed.
just a prison.
and the warden.

a man short in stature.
a man who wasn't here before.
this man who thinks he runs the place.
does he not know?
he isn't welcome here.
only by the old school marm.
not by those imprisoned in these ancient walls.
if these walls could talk.
they'd tell him to leave.

all of a sudden i'm home again.
only it's not home anymore.
just a house.
just a bed.

and the memories
they fade.
if these walls could talk
just maybe
they'd tell me the story
of when this house was a home.

but the memories
they fade.

just a house.
just a bed.
just a faded memory
to which i lay no claim.