Dihydrated Rium

Beneath the once-turquoise pebbles
are the other pebbles,
more real and as much a part of the
aquarium as water should be.
A stalk of dry bamboo leans against
a large rock
and the transparent wall.

I look into my own eyes
and through them.
I blink and see them swimming.
Kermit
and Miss Piggy
I've named them,
their webbed feet paddling
in what I can only assume
is content.
The consensus between us is reached:
I feed and they teach
me how to be ambivalent.
Just two, just two.
My palm rests above the lid,
fingers gripping the top,
clutching their see-through home
in the clasp that usually feeds them.
They gasp and scurry in the water
as much as you can scurry or gasp in water,
and are as confused
as you can be confused in water -
confusing
water.
I blink,
and my own eyes stare through themselves again.

Turquoise fades to grey,
and dust coats the lid
that covers only rocks
and a desiccated bamboo stalk.

Eye of the Beholder

I hate it when I dress up, and people don't see how handsome I look. It's not that I want people to acknowledge my beauty, because obviously, I can acknowledge it myself plenty. Rather, it's me wanting others' approval. I get frustrated with myself when I stay dressed for longer than I have to. Right now, for example, I want to go to the gym (okay, okay, I need to go to the gym), but I also want to stay dressed because, goddammit, I'm gorgeous in these clothes.

Wtf me?

Borrowed Light

The room is dimly lit,
the only sources of
light are the tv
and the moon through the windows,
rays of borrowed brightness.
Sam and Diane are arguing again,
and next up
I get to relive someone else's
wonder years.
Chachi and the Fonz
are playing it cool,
and the ghost of Don Knotts
stares across the room,
only a few inches,
wide-eyed.
I get to laugh at them,
and sometimes with them,
and sometimes alone,
and then I sleep.

I dreamt of you again again,
but this time it was different,
like my soul had given up,
even when my heart
and indeed my head
say no.
We were friends, still,
and we laughed as only friends can do,
without the hope of something more.
Like a tv marathon,
our laughter lasts a night.
And in my dream,
I have already let you go.

All the dreams I've had of you,
were incandescent in their joy,
but incandescent dreams
are only borrowed light.
In waking, each time,
I was wrought with sadness.
But this time,
I never even had a chance at joy.
Even in dreams, you're gone.
I hate to be so straightforward,
but writing this is as much discovery
as it is poetry.
I hate to be so straightforward
because I want it to sound pretty,
but I guess it sounds pretty as it is.

I love you,
and please don't go
because even in my dreams now,
you're gone.
And I am left with nothing
but the borrowed memory
of what could have been.

November 19, 2011

Memorized

This is a poem I wrote around 4AM last night. I was already in bed, and "soul to soul" came across my mind. I was literally seconds away from sleep, but then "you'll never remember this when you wake up" crossed my mind. So I typed something up in my drafts and promptly knocked out. I had completely forgotten about it for almost 24 hours. I almost wish I had forgotten about it longer.

i haven’t memorized the contours of your face
or the shape of your hips
or the color of your eyes
but i bet they are as
grand
as sequoias
a copse for me to rest.
i havent memorized how long your hair is
how it looks in rain
or how it bumps and bobs
when you run.
i only know you
soul to soul
and this soul rejoices
when greeted by one of its same
and mourns
as we part.

and i’ve memorized this sadness,
for my body is the chamber that
echoes my soul’s melancholy
or whatever human word
i can call lack of you.

Heartbeat's Harmony

A broken record plays
behind the bookshelf of my mind.
"Don't do it. Don't do it."
But its muffled verses
are drowned by the echo of my thoughts,
still unblossomed but loud.
DUH-DUM, DUH-DUM.
My heartbeat is another echo,
And these two
harmonize and sound so
right,
somehow.

And when I follow the rapturous melody
to its bittersweet conclusion,
I am left with nothing
but the quiet echos of remorse
and a broken record
behind a bookshelf.

Was there ever a heartbeat harmony?
Was there ever a heartbeat harmony?

The broken record plays,
and I am forced to hear its verses,
now repeating in my mind
like jaunts.
I jeer and curse it,
wanting secretly a reimbursement
of my too-late clarity.
I immerse myself in self-loathing,
so that is all I hear
in the taunting of the broken record,
the chorus for my mistakes.

I wanted to be right,
but now I'm left again
to listen for another song.