Learning to Drink

The bottles lined up on my room's shelf
mark the endlessness of so many conversations.

Sometimes around friends and laughter.
Sometimes with a hand resting,
promising desire across the table.
Sometimes warmed only by my own breathing.

Why is it that that glass of house wine
consumed me like no other I've ever had?
A cheap glass in a fancy chinese restaurant.

But then the day changed,
the lights all too bright, promising
magic.

Across from you,
ages after my first glass,
you teach me to taste the wine.

Mr. Squiggly and Ms. Stern end their story

On that day he was as neat as hse always wanted him to be.
He folded his socks in straight piles, his shirts
uncharacteristically pressed and starched in protest.

She watched him pack,
leaning gingerly on the bedroom doorframe,
impatiently tapping her perfect nails
against the plaster of the wall.

In the end, he had to admit that he expected something more
than the urgency of a strange yellow cab awaiting him.
In the end, he expected her to
break down a little,
to hav his first and last look at some tenderness
behinde her rigid face.

In the end, all he has was a packed suitcase.

He had nothing but her deep sigh of relief
to see him out the door.

Even as I Sleep

This morning I am drawn
restlessly to slumber endlessly
between the sheets.

To quitely suffer
the coming of the day
with eyes closed,
even to the reality that creeps
like warmth into my bones.

I would like to sleep some more.
oblivious
to the time, to the place, to the call
of the things that I must do.

But even sleep, now,
cannot comfort me.
I am wretched.
I am unloved.
And even in my dreams
she haunts me still.

Only in my dreams
will her arms enfold me.
Only in my dreams
will I feel our palms touch.
Only in my dreams
will I know.

But I am awake now.
Sooner or later my bare feet
must endure the chill of the tiled floor.
Just a little longer.
Not yet.
Not yet.