I feigned disinterest

As you watched me

From a distance.

Engulfed with mixed emotions

Fearful,

Yet

flattered,

By your obsessive devotion

As you Learn

routines of my days..

Enamored

Yet

Disdained

by your infatuation.

Stifled

Yet

Delighted

With your teasing glimpses.

Then..

You vanished

Leaving footsteps cold on my trail

Relieved

Yet

Long

For your attention.

Once again...

It started with a broken coffee decanter

leading to a trip to the Cuban bakery

down the street for a morning coffee fix

The lights and sounds of a busy street

The smell of fine Cuban cigars and

the sound of old men chitchatting away

The smell of tamales, fresh baked bolillos, pan dulce, and the powerful

aromatic smell of coffee

The smell of Jack

as you pour it into the coffee

The way the world feels slightly more

bearable after the fourth cup

and how it makes the next twelve

hours of work a blur

The quietness and peacefulness

of the world at midnight

A pause heading up to the apartment

The faint sound of a cry for help

The panic and rush that sets in

That gut-wrenching feeling when

you no longer feel a pulse

The weight of a dead corpse

resting in your arms

The taste of blood from biting down

on your lip to hold in the screams

The police lights and never ending questions

The irony and knowing you'll never be a able to step foot into another Cuban bakery

Knowing that come tomorrow

he'll sleep in a coffin six feet under

Knowing you'll sleep in tomb of bottles

filled to the rim tonight

Mask the smell of booze and Camels

with cake-batter and a spritz of Love Spell

Wipe the tears and head up the stairs

The day's smells and sounds grip

around the throat and choke like a noose

Bent down on all fours gasping for air

Lying there on the bathroom floor

starring at the ceiling through

kaleidoscopic tear-filled eyes

It feels like my ribs are shaking 

there seems to be an earthquake in my lungs 

and the flowers I took so long to grow there 

are being tossed around and thrown into my blood stream

Sunflower petals are not made to fit into arteries

It feels like my brain is missing

like the only thing that sits atop my head 

is a heavy iron weight made of onyx scribbles

there is something so wrong up there it had to be crossed out

It feels like my lips are a burnt battleground

And my eyes are almost as hallow as the pit that lives in my abdomen 

My hands shake like hummingbird wings 

and my heart is a mangled Martyr cross atop a steep cyanide shrine

It feels like I don't have a smile

but a muzzle snarling 

I'm so rabid I don't even know what I'm howling at

but even the wolf knows when the danger about is real

It feels like my entire body is a grotesque collage of nightmares 

the only thing missing is the lanky dark figure who swallows me up at night

I don't know who dreamed me up but I was not made to stay idle

There is a shining star.

The moonlight shining.

The star said to me,

"Don't touch me. 

I am a ball of fire."

I was surprised.

I said,"You can't be.

You are too pretty."

The star smiled.

"Will you be my friend?"

I asked.

"Yes," said the star, 

"I will be your friend,

till the end."

This poem is written by my son Avi. @RubyPond had given him a prompt "Star" to work on.

Your dreams

shrank in the wash twenty Tuesdays ago

and you can't afford new ones.

You inhaled tales of Icarus, the sun

was a distant lover you would someday kiss

and in those moments, clutching life by the 

babyfat, it was impossible to miss.

Except the years become mudslides and

the truth of life is

da Vinci died before invention of

human flight.

Wax dripped and dried and feathers

pulled from the down pillows you dreamed on top of

were factory manufactured perfection for sleep,

not soaring.

The wings never worked and failed fantasies grew boring

so you took them out to the seaside and

pitched them out like skipping stones,

buried them in the sands next to Icarus's bones,

bleached and burnt and still

whispering of the sky.

They are gender fluid, but have told me to currently use masculine pronouns. It varies, he says, but right now “he” is fine. He is rather tall, taller than more than half of his siblings. His hair is almost shoulder length, a very nice blue-grey color with a green tint.

He often hides behind his large black glasses, even though he isn't really all that shy. Most of the time he has headphones in, listening to smooth jazz or soft rock or something in a similar genre. He can get up early, unlike his sister, but prefers not to. Out of all the siblings, he is the most relaxed.

His name is Tuesday.

Red, orange, yellow

Green, blue, purple

It's just love

Not immoral

Colors so pretty

Showing off pride

Showing freedom

No more needing to hide

Who are you to say

Who I can love?

I doubt they mind

In the world above

Here's a not-so-secret secret;

I'm Bi

I'm serious

No lie

I've been attracted

To people of both sex

As long as I can remember

No more needed steps

I've dated people

Of both genders

Not getting offended

By the offenders

This is me

No joke

You can either accept it

Or go choke

Cuz this is important to me

No matter what y'all say

I am this way

And this way I will stay

we are all just walking each other home

so take me by the hand

let my fingers brace with yours,

palm to palm (as if to say in holy palmer’s kiss)

and let us wander down the sidewalk

let us meander across the grass; shall we

detour through the garden? Anything, anywhere—

anything to prolong this walk with you.

I know that the destination is the same, and

that we shall, of course, come home together,

but still I wish to walk, just a little while longer,

with your hand held tight to mine.

One:

         I met you at the library yesterday

         and the only thing I said to you was, “Excuse me,”

         as I reached past you to grab the latest

         science-fiction novel by David Weber on the shelves.

         While I appreciate your own appreciation

         for science-fiction in life and in literature,

         I don’t watch Doctor Who so asking me to

         “Be your Companion through Time and Space”

         while offering a ring shaped like the TARDIS

         is not really a thing I am interested in.

Two:

         I like my coffee the same way that I like

         my Sunday mornings—slow and sweet

         and oh-so-just-right-hot.

         Not too hot and not too cold, you understand?

         But wrapped up in that delicious kind of tangle

         where languor meets luxury in a lush kind

         of wallow and you and I roll around in the mud.

         Sunday is a day of rest—

         But you like your coffee black, if you drink it all.

         Black and burnt and boiling; no sweetener to

         be found at all in you, no cream.

Three:

         We’re in Las Vegas—

         Ask me again in the morning when you’re sober.

Four:

         “I love you” are words we dream about,

         words we search for and sometimes force

         and often, words that we misunderstand.

         You said, “I love you,” and could tell me

         nothing else. Over and over you repeated,

                              “I love you.”

                              “I love you.”

                              “I love you.”

         I don’t want you to love me—

         I want you to know me. I want

         you to know me and understand

         where my rage and pain and terror

         grow inside of me, and I need you

         to know those places where gardens

         of laughter and sensuality and zeal

         flourish in wild, abandoned jungles.

Five:

         I don’t love you. I don’t know you.

                   I don’t want to, either.

Six:

         I… I have to wash my hair.

         I left the oven on.

         I think I left my door unlocked.

         I caught a rare African disease that is highly, highly contagious

      and very uncomfortable.

         I have to fulfill my potential.

      I have to fulfill your potential.

         I just found out we’re related.

         I need to play with my mental blocks.

         I’m too young for that stuff.

      I’m too old for that stuff.

         My subconscious says “No.”

         None of my socks match.

                    I don’t want to ruin our friendship.

Seven:

It’s not you, it’s me.

Eight:

It’s not me. It’s you.