I knew you were running out of time,

and you knew it, too.

You always knew best.

You always knew everything.

The one who couldn’t read or write.

Your last words were well thought out.

A vision you foretold.

“Stay away from him.”

“He’s no good for you.”

“Walk away.”

Words of wisdom before

you closed your eyes

for the last time.

Should have, could have, would have.

But I didn’t.

Happy birthday, and RIP.

I’ll see you soon.

I see you in the majesty of the

star-dotted stratosphere.

And when the clouds darken

the ominous skies, I see you.

Amongst the trees

or the whispering wind,

or the fluttering of butterflies,

I see you.

When a young child flies by me on a bicycle

or chases after an errant ball;

I see you.

I once saw you on a train,

causing my broken heart to spasm

and spill out all over me.

I saw you just yesterday in the desert,

and in the bar having a cocktail.

And when that bucking Ibex

locked eyes with me,

yes, oh yes, it was you that I saw.

Every so often, I see you in the ocean.

Sometimes, the ocean is me—calm, and

tranquil until I see you, and then I am a

rip current, plunging under,

way, way out of reach.

I packed up the photos,

stored the first-place trophies,

and stashed away all that

would remind me.

But still, I see you.

A nonet starts with nine syllables.

The next line; it goes down to eight.

The longer the nonet goes,

the harder to make work.

Like life, I suppose.

It starts with birth

ends with death.

Make it

work.

The wind rustles

through the

Cypress trees,

while the

sparrows

perch

like Christmas

ornaments,

and

harmonize

in the

waning light.

It’s chilly

but I sit

and shiver,

grateful for

the symphony,

the lion

in plain sight.

I feel so much,

yet never enough.

I wonder

what they’re

doing,

and wait.

One treasured

photo of

wisping hair

on feathered lashes,

a curly cowlick,

and skin so fair.

And those

mischievous eyes

so diligently

fixed on the prize.

Soon she will eat cake.

You and I

have history.

Are we a legend,

or did we merely

live out a

predetermined

sequence of events,

which resulted in

the sad story of us?

We’ve both had

our fair share

of slips

and

poor decisions.

Perhaps we will reunite

somewhere out there,

somewhere other than

this bitter-sweet earth.

But probably not.

When we danced

in that crummy kitchen,

it was transcendent.

Yes, transcendent

because

beautiful you

pulled me in so close.

So close, I was able to

breathe in all of you.

If I knew our

best moments

and random triumphs

were fleeting,

I would have cherished

them more than I did.

There were moments

I wish we could relive,

moments I wanted to

last forever.

And then there were others

I’ve spent a lifetime

wishing away.

I couldn’t keep quiet,

because the telling

kept me sane.

And yet the truth

did not

set me free.

Instead, it set

in motion

a roller coaster

of cruel denials.

Set in motion by not

one,

not two,

but three.

I cared not for

two and three.

Just the one.

I’m sorry,

I couldn’t change

the moments

that destroyed us.

As you know,

those moments

were in someone

else’s hands.

We crisscrossed

in and out

of each other’s lives,

a few times.

In all but one of those times,

something always told me

we would see each other again.

But not the last time.

In dance,

you chose me.

But in life, I know

you did not choose me.

What I don’t know

and what I never asked

is if you wanted me.

I imagined over the years

that you did not.

I wonder now,

If you regret me,

and I wouldn’t blame you

if you did.

Because we both

got tangled up

in all of it.

And you know what

it is.

Because it

happened to

you too.

We are more alike

than you or I

care to

admit.

So many times,

out of anger

you did not choose

your words wisely.

If it wasn’t for you…

You probably didn’t know,

but those five words stung.

The stinging was real

and as painful

as getting a tattoo,

although I never got one.

Or maybe I did.

A tattoo of us,

etched forever

on my broken heart.

If you’re

reading this poem,

then I know

you

still care for me.

Hate is

synonymous

with love,

so

thank you,

for being

out there,

somewhere,

looking me up.

I look you up too.

If you’re

reading this poem,

then you’ll know

I’m afraid

we’ll miss

our chance

at one last try.

One last try,

before we die.

If you’re

reading this poem,

you should know

that I’m here,

waiting for you.

And for those

who just happen to be

reading this poem,

seize the moment,

and reach out to

you-know-who.