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His Little Secret

I could have written about daffodils

but, I chose you,
because some days,
pain seems to pull poetry;

birth words
from intimate places.

I still can’t understand
the concept of unloving;
shutting a door you opened-
flipping the script on a life.

You can silence me
but, never my existence,
though you have tried,

This dirty little secret
is still blooming

but, don’t despair, daddy
as I step away discreetly
with my self-respect
and a fist full of daffodils.

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Love Letter #79: Stowaway

As I looked across the table at him,
my soul, a two way mirror-
heart dissected, chastised
like love often is,
deflated, misunderstood
like the rhythm
of crashing cymbals
in a poet’s head at 3:00 am.

Everything seems dark these days
fists raging against the wind,
teeth clenched.
He runs beside the train,
she drops her backpack to her feet,
relaxes her face muscles;
exhales.

We still flow like a river,
soft, steady ripples
like my skin
in the wake of his fingers.

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Love Letter 77: Instrument

There are moments
when even poets
need no words
when syllables silence,
his fingers slide
across the palm
and criss-cross into mine
like a sanctuary for hearts;
the flow of feelings,
hum in symmetry
playing us softly,
like strings of a harp;
like poetry
off the tongue.

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Love Letter #76: Creation

As flowers tickle tiny bare feet,
petals fall from fingers

he loves me,
he loves me not;
life spun into a silk dress
hands hold a bouquet
reflecting the light

from my eyes
to his
loving
days and nights after

my giggle, his smile,
under a sky full of stars
all formed

from just the sound
of your voice.

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Unfaded

Sky opens in the light of our eyes;
a violet sunset, the backdrop
for our symmetry.

Daffodils spring up like poems,
words fall delicate, like petals
in the wake of our smiles
lips, exchanging adjectives, unfaded,
like our love in the distance.

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Love Letter #75: Youth is Overrated

Leave me here, amongst the wildflowers
in the shadow of weeping willows
oblivious to time and the lines it leaves.
I’ve known the beauty and pain of love
longer and deeper than you, poet;
alliteration flowing from waiting lips
that romance has never departed from.
Whispers still tickle the nape of my neck;
his fingertips tracing the curve of my smile,
pink roses behind his back and a twinkle
in eyes that see beyond the superficial;
stars lending light to natural beauty
in this temporary facsimile of life.

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The Colors Mornings Make

They never understood my smile
as we passed blooming yellow daffodils
sprinkled with morning; petals reborn
each dawn, like my heart when we awaken;

sunlight breathing through curtains
blue as the peace I find in your words.