The Majestic Lady

He tells me about the lady bug.

Says that’s the only thing he remembers,

But I think he remembers the tears too

And the pain.

But these things are too hard for him to describe,

So he just goes on

About the elegant nature of the lady

In her red satin gown

Dotted with black pearls.

She waved a farewell to him

With her languid arms

And disappeared into the night sky.

It’s funny how omens are beautiful

Before we know what comes next

And they stick around in our minds long after

Everything else has gone.

He smiles when he tells me about her

But it’s bittersweet

And laced with regret.

He doesn’t look at me;

Instead, stares off into space

No doubt seeing her.

“I remember you,”

He tells the majestic lady.

“You were everywhere that day.

I saw your dress trailing the leaves

In the sun, you were on fire.

You were so beautiful.

Everything else was wrong.

But you were still so beautiful.”

I assume she simply waves at him and flies away

Like she did then.

Because she is only a memory.

I wonder if he will ever see her again

In that beautiful light of before

Or if she has become a house

For the aching in his chest

And the hollowness in his bones.


The Best Days

Tell me, what was the best day of your life?

Hesitating much? It’s not so easy, is it?

But when you do find that day. That hour. That minute. Perhaps even that second.

And you will find it because it will haunt you until you do.

You’ll find it wasn’t quite extraordinary.

Maybe you threw off your shoes and ran through the grass on the first real day of spring.

Maybe you stood there as the heavens opened and the rains poured down on you. And you danced. With your friends. The water soaking through your sorrows. Cleansing you of pain and worry.

Maybe you took cover from the storm in a playground tunnel. And you all smiled at the little kid who peeked in and giggled. And you wiggled your toes at him in response.

Frick Park, Pittsburgh, PA April 13th 2017

When We Lose Ourselves

This is long overdue
And it does not come easily
But it needs to be said
Because I’m tired of lying
To myself.
It’s funny
How we ache
When we lose ourselves
But do not even realize
That we are drifting.
I’ve missed these words
But I didn’t even know until
I reached for the pen
And it was buried
Deep in my skin.
So now, I am pulling it out.
Forgive me if I bleed
And scream a bit
In the process.
It might take some time
For the words to come back
Because I am out of practice.
The ink has seeped into my veins.
I cannot hate it
For trying to write in my blood.
For trying to write the words inside
So they would not die
On my lips
Before I sewed them shut.