detour

I am Radclyffe.
I am Melissa.
I am Ani.
I am my father.


I am me,
then in walks she,
with all her entourage of pain,
her pockets full of promise,
and her heart full of distain
her mind full of the questions
for which I have all the answers,
her face full of stained memories,
lost "happy-ever-afters",
and all dissonant rhyme
my honest melody surpasses.

And then, of course, she needs me,
maybe even it's a want thing,
and then of course I start to think
that it's all real, start falling.
And when I say "fall", I mean
fall to my knees, fall for her,
I mean sacrifice arteries
to drip red carpet for her;
I mean that she walks in,
and I stand up, suddenly Hall,
and by the time I hear the
"chime-clunk-chime" (winner takes all)
I'm Prince of Denmark, heart of gold,
not expecting the fall,
forced by the weight of that
crude metal, and I'm left here all
bloodless and wandering
for years, wondering what I missed,
robbed of my rightful place there
as King of Her Heart, I miss
her as much as I hate her,
and what she turned me into,
I hate that someone will
someday do what I couldn't do,
I hate that she's still hurting,
her cheeks still tainted with salt,
myself for taking the bait, I hate
that it wasn't time's fault,
(and don't try to blame fate).

But most of all, I hate that
once the characters are gone,
the faces and the phases, and
the lines and all the songs,
I'm back to sitting, writing
in some two-bit cheap cafe,
healing myself with words,
because sentences don't decay,
and I am me again, and I'm
March, April, and I'm May,
and I am me, but John's still hoping
you'll show up someday.

Silvered Glass [still drafting]

You're her at sixteen,
everything but clean,
everything we lost;
you're not what I mean.

You're her way back then,
you're her before them,
you weren't without warning
(all over again).

And that's why I know
what you're about to say,
that's why you've always
affected me this way.

And that's why you hate her,
'cause that's how it goes,
like a shard of mirror
in her face, 'cause she knows

that you're her at sixteen,
that same smile, same inflection,
and that's why you hate her;
who likes their reflection?

Dinner party conversation..

A premature prompt you didn't need for the next line of suggestion; preceded by your line, rehearsed, gone over in your head a hundred times; followed by more of the tiresome same. How many hundred more before you convince yourself it's true? It doesn't make the difference you think it does anyway, because there's no escaping air; especially the sort that hangs between your past and this. And I'll crop up again regardless in some other city, a different name and voice perhaps, a different color eyes. And even that won't make the difference up between your future and the fact that I am the best opportunity you'll ever think you had to lose (and did).