I think I might love you but it’s one of those things where it’s not worth it if I don’t. When I look around my room I see your limbs draped along the bed frame, pieces of your heart taped on the wall and propped up on the shelf. When I think about my time here I imagine ocean waves crashing with your voice, something stupid that you said to make us laugh. It’s one of those things where if I had to pick the best aspects of my life, they would all trace back to a few ways that I’ve felt, and those would be remnants of moments with you.

But I’m not stupid. I’ve made peace with the fact that I grew up too fast and left behind the innocence of wishing on dandelions before I fully blossomed. Now I’m something of a witch, grumbling on the shoreline, swaying to the wind, standing tall and independent. I don’t expect to be picked, and I’m content with where I am. A tiny part of me is even glad that you keep me around – never the object of affection, but a wise constant in the scene.

If I do love you, I’m scared that that’s the worst thing I could do. There will always be girls who are prettier, flashier, more me than me. I know every type that you like, every glimmer that catches your eye and warrants a cheeky joke in my direction. If I love you, I am signing myself up for a lifetime of battle scars, every new connection for you matching a burn on me.

So I think I’ll fold this intuition up and bury it in a moving box as I pack up my mind. It was just a lapse in judgment. You own too much of me; I will never let you get close enough to see.

I’m learning to love your music again

to make it my own.

It will always remind me of you.

The sleepless nights

and the tireless days

spent thinking of you.

Your music once filled me with joy.

But it’s yours.

Now that you’re gone,

I’m desperately trying to get that happiness back.

It’s slow going.

I still haven’t deleted my playlists meant for you.

Lately, life has been for the kids too afraid to grow up. The ones who sit on the swings on their elementary school playground, wishing time would freeze. The girl who just got into her dream school, who suddenly wishes she could go back to sleep. The group of boys taking off their jerseys, never to play a high school football game again. It’s bittersweet; it melts on your tongue.

Life has been suns setting and steam rising, the smell of fragrant new beginnings mixing with the lost scent of a fabric softener you haven’t used in five years. It’s funny how long we spend wishing for things to change, and when they do, we freeze.

but if jesus is still

awake i wonder if he'd tell me

at what age

he disconnected his

gmail from his dad's

and if it came out of a place of

anger or if he just turned eighteen

one day and decided to

change his password.

but if he stays up late like i do, i'm

already feeling this sense

it's

probably not the latter.

when i was nine years old i

crashed my grandmother's laptop.

do you think she remembers this

every time

she searches for youtube?

probably not, but i do.

i've written the same ghost

story book over and over again, it's

the one 

i'd steal from the scholastic

book fair and hide; it's

the childhood bible

that i never picked up.

have my parents ever thought that maybe

their child is mad at them?

is everyone's heavenly daddy

immune to this, am i 

the system error? is my father's

hallowed name restored?

i have been thinking this

in every different brain in this body

for months, i cannot

close my eyes to sleep 

without seeing a hand coming to pluck me from this

hell and drop me into another one.

when i was nine years old i

let my friend run me over

on my new bike.

does she think of this when she

wins races now at college?

i still care.

it still lives in my mind,

a feeling of fire and tangling of

legs.

and if god didn't 

leave his son i wonder if things

would have turned out different for every other

kid in the brown green earth,

because if you can't even get the attention of your

dad as some sub-human

sub-god 

person thing

then what the

living hell am i supposed to do

when all mine cares about is my

geometry grade and 

old gmail

and the search history i've

deleted hours ago?

i hope i can still find it

sometime after this, if it can't

seem to dig itself into a grave.

they say once you do something it will 

always be out there so i've

grown up hoping

everything is forever.

that my best friend never dies. that

my grandmother never dies.

that my childhood bike can

decompose into the earth 

and see me again someday. someday, maybe...

when i was nine i found a dead cat on the walkway near my house.

does god plan this when he makes the animals?

i'm sure he probably does.

For Father's Day, my lovely daughter-in-law signed me up at StoryWorth (https://www.storyworth.com). She wanted her two children (my little grandkids) to have something to remember me by. Some sort of connection.

How does it work?

StoryWorth sends me a year’s worth of story prompts. I respond to them. During the year, those responses are shared with a select group of friends and family via email. At the end of the year, my grandkids will get a hardcover book with a color cover.

Wasn't crazy about the idea at first. Why? Because it forced me to face my own mortality. (At age 74, that can't be far away.) How do I cope? By ignoring it, mostly.

And so I write. trying to be honest and insightful, but at the same time realizing that by the time they're old enough to read and understand these ramblings, I may be gone.

Not an altogether pleasant thought.

Then it hit me: "Why not share these little write-ups on Prose?"

Not that y'all are interested. (Most, probably not.) But, at the very least, you'll know I'm not dead ... yet.

"Hoo-Ray!"

Besides, some of you might want to respond to the questions I'm answering with your own thoughts.

There it is. The answer to the "Why?" question. Not complicated, but felt I had to do it.

So what do you think? Would you take on such a project? Either way, let me know.

Thanks . . .

quoting shakespeare makes me feel smart. i do it because my soul likes to hear him in my own voice. when i first met you, all i heard were his love sonnets. i got why Romeo would kill himself because of grief. if you were Juliet, never could i survive in a world without you. if you were Macbeth, then i would be your dutiful wife cleaning blood on my hands and knees. when i got to know you, other poetry came to me. shall i compare thee to a summers day? yes, i shall. you burned me just like a July afternoon, pink and in pain. have you ever regretted getting a sunburn? i find i'm fine with it when i turn tan in a week or so. that's how you were. you fried my skin and made me die then you told me i was beautiful and tanned my skin to perfection. but then you changed. or maybe i did. either way, i felt like a vengeful character. i felt like the warring households. and still, so many months after i swore not to talk to you, i have one thing left to say. it sums up how i feel, after the double suicide and the stained hands. i have one more piece of poetry for you. I would eat his heart in the marketplace.

loneliness is embarrassing. it’s important. it’s love. it’s blood.

it’s a god rushing in your ears like an ugly train track

for the unlucky, of course.

i stole this loneliness from you

and made it mine.

i took on the world’s loneliness

and became a beast.

i grew into him easily.

i knew what it meant to be foul.

the children were right -

the world is good

but all stories must have a villain.

the world is good and i crawl in its walls

like a horrible thing.

there is a rotten-eyed god

who kisses me to sleep

leaves me lovestruck

smokes a cigarette while i lie awake.

lover, i am at this intersection,

waiting in the busy crossroads of time

to cross the street.

find me in the darkness,

find me at the red light,

find me as a drunk driver,

just find me.

do not rest

until i am in your apartment

shivering from the rain

like a wet dog.

will you save me?

is this something i can ask of you?

find me in rush hour traffic.

on a crowded street

lost in translation

and messy at the lines.

dare i ask you to decode me?

to sit me down on your moth-eaten couch

and read me like a worn-out book?

i do contain stories

but you may not want to read them.

they are sad, mostly.

i need to write myself out of this one.

i need to write a novel, or a prayer.

something to chew on

when the days get cold.

i’ve learned to hold loneliness in my mouth

like a cat with a mouse

like prey

like the battle is over, which, of course,

is a lie.

i’ve learned all the falsehoods in the world

and taken them on as my own.

when you strip me down

and put me to bed

there will be nothing left of me

to kiss softly.

i should've known.

the back of my temple was telling me so

the beat of the ritual faltered-

ripe flashes of red, a tarnished presentation

don’t you know you’re entitled to nothing?

slowness is healing,

rivers green with menthol numbness,

eyes that drowned ten moons ago

and then i know

i can’t come back from this now.

you call me a poet // i call it vocal sin.

speak(ing) of the devil, he rides the train

past heaven, licks his lips and pulls in

humanity's station - there i'm waiting,

for him. there's a numbing in my bones

i've yet to know // watch the fish ripple

through my veins; still, there's no name

for my condition.

pre-paid tragedy // not made for loving.

the devil draws his head back to laugh,

my sweatt drips down the suitcase -

blood red - in my hands. weathered skin

crushed against expectation, raising my arms

to show him // the devil hisses, said

rewriting stars is a dreadful art, leaves you with

half finished hearts. i would claim the devil

a cruel man - if only, he had no truth to him.