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Posts Tagged ‘friends’

The Nights I Remember

We lit up sparklers in your cul-de-sac,

our faces only seen in

flashes—

couldn’t look away

from our supernovas.

They hissed,

begging us to keep them there,

aware and eternal.

We united them, making it last

as long as we could

until it was time

to go back inside.

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I feel vulnerable and my body aches

with uncertainty.

I become anxiety

when my plans tank.

But I still want to hear about

your day.

What happened in class—

the notes you write her,

the next drawing you make.

 

My eyes are always inside screens,

my mind on what I need to do,

my hands on something

I believe is more important.

But it isn’t.

Nothing is more important.

I need to turn and face you.

Time is not running out—

It is right here.

And so are you.

 

I am not young enough

to walk next to you in the halls,

and not old enough to

pass off as your mom.

I am in-between friend and parent,

wanting to have more power,

to give you what you need,

What you want.

I care too much

about your fingers, your music eyes,

your swollen heart.

You are not my child, but you are

worth all my time.

 

You are not the reason

I worry about money,

about where I will end up.

I feel your gratitude

even when you are distracted—

We all get distracted.

I feel like I always am.

 

My uncertain life would be hollow

without your stories, music,

and yearning to be heard.

 

Yes, I am scared.

But if you ever left—

There is nothing that scares me

more.

 

 

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Buried under this snow
is the day I will be leaving
and won’t push open
that heavy door
that those broken steps
lead up to.
I won’t walk
up that ramp,
leading to his office—
walls covered in paintings
like in a living room,
and a cleared off desk.
Typewriter next to him.
I sat in the same chair
every time.

The benches that I found
refuge in will no longer
be my benches,
but they will remember
my warmth,
and the sound of my typing—
those essays and stories
they heard for hours
in a form of Morse Code.

I wonder how long
it will take for my name
to just be a name
and no longer my face
or voice.
My poems might take on
new meanings.
Or I might take on
a new meaning.
But I am not sure that
I want to find one.

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I want to shed you

of the path

you have to take like

it is an unwanted layer

of skin.

I feel like I need

to show you a side

to life that doesn’t exist,

or one that I want

to create.

 

I used to stay up

at night staring at

the digital clock

as though the darkness

was brighter than

the glowing numbers.

I want to bring you back

to when I was there,

to show you how

we rise up, come home,

and face the things

that throw us back

down again.

 

I want to pick up your

problems and throw them

the distance that the sound

of my heart is carried

inside of me.

I assure you the best

I can, but there will always

be that longing

for you to know for sure

and for me to be the one

that gives that comfort

to you.

 

 

 

 

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Photo credit: article.wn.com

Photo credit: article.wn.com

Cigar smoke, lights, and old red carpets,

ringing sounds–people winning.

A drunk old man

turns to me and says,

“You know, you are as cute as a button!”

I say thank you, not knowing

what to do,

and he adds,

“That’s not a bad thing, you know.”

I smile, find my friends, and walk

far down the isle.

Pick a black chair–sinks in

with a hissing sound when I sit.

Penny slots–my best friend

picks the 50 row button.

Wins $60.

I lose the $10 I put in

quickly.

The winning sounds surrounding me

depresses me, and I want

my machine to light up,

And there is a message that flashes

If you or someone you know has

a gambling problem…

What do these addicts see?

They see the lights

flashing in their mind.

I imagine they see them

as they fall asleep.

The sounds pointing them

to the possibility that they

won’t keep failing.

There is a chance,

And they keep pressing on.

I get up off the sinking chair,

smile at my slightly richer friend,

and we leave.

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Without waiting

Extra cream, five splenda,

almost looking like

letters swirling.

It’s as though the coffee

is a type of alphabet soup.

He stirs and watches

the color turn blonde

and solid.

 

The edge of the cup

rises to his lips

and he slips the heat

past his tongue.

Somehow

he still tastes it.

 

The routine is always

brew, mix, drink,

without waiting

for the steam

to find a new place

to live.

 

He puts the cup down,

happy with knowing

he can control

when it is ready

for him to drink.

 

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Fast Approaching

Photo credit: gogirlcommunications.com

Photo credit: gogirlcommunications.com

Caps and gowns,

and speeches

and name

after name

after name.

My best friend

walks,

I clap hard.

People around

me look

at me as though

I offended them.

And then

the ceremony

rolls on.

When it ends

I look for you

and look for you

and search

for you.

I never realized

how looking

and searching

are two different

things

until that moment.

This desperation

washes over

me.

Next year it

will be me

leaving.

And I’ll be searching,

searching

for you.

What if I can’t find

you then?

A graduate

looking for her

professor

after graduation

is not

unordinary.

But you are

my friend,

my mentor,

and I love

you.

Is that

unordinary?

Yes.

But I reject that.

And I reject

the fact

that the future

is so fast

approaching,

ready to either

swallow me

or catch me.

Either way,

its mouth is

wide open.

And I am still

searching, searching.

Not ready

to hear my name,

or walk towards

my name,

or walk towards

you afterwards

with an uncertain

look on my face

about where

to step,

when to pull

down

the curtain

of tears,

and how to trust

in myself

without having to

say goodbye.

 

 

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