Westsider, Rare

The woman I loved
Chances to have drifted nearby
From across country;
Alights on a section of the city
Typically distant to me
But I happen to be there in evening
And see her photo on my phone,
A few blocks away in person
But still (safely) states away in heart.
I still proudly disbelieve in fate
But feel the irony that twists my heart
With thoughts of how we’re linked
And in the future, published,
I envision a woman reading these words –
Not her, someone else
Who I imagine myself feigning to love,
Imagine her reading and feeling sorrow
Because she never loved me in return.

Memory

You, like little ice picks, haltingly,

Oh my snowy one,

You break into my trajectory

And say, are you reality, or just symphony?

Oh, I don’t know.

 

Blue brittle vicegrips, brokenly

Chip my teeth away

And break them into potpourri

And the scene goes from alchemy into anarchy

Like anything else.

 

But your words play on my heart like piano keys

Left in concert halls,

Eternal unremembered melodies

That you play to me, as your legs move in harmony –

Oh, let me go.

 

And these, needless words made foolhardily

Just for artiface

Conceal the emptiness of memory

Badly made into allegory, or fake history

Oh, it’s enough.