I’m sorry, I can’t read

your long soliloquy

And I know this wants to rhyme

But it shouldn’t.
Maybe sometimes.

Because now my mind is

going through the racks

of the vintage store I loved, years ago.

Sparkly and kitsch

eclipsed by the pitch

black of memories in coat pockets

and the spark in eye sockets

as they held my joyous orbs

of sight.

(It took time and care

to find the gems there.)

There are many ‘clever’ souls

refining our fright,

our ear muffs on tight

as we step back in night

with our swords drawn.

But in this tiny blog space

there can be only one

tribe, that is.

If any at all.

And in case you were wondering,

it’s the human one.

I wish Tootsies still existed.
The craftsmanship was something to behold, and enjoy, and get lost in
(of varied conversations, I mean.
The clothes were…

“Poetry deserves to be felt.
Experienced.
Just like you.”

Let me tell you a little bit about how I fell in love with poetry. It wasn’t one thing, either. No one piece stood out to me and hit me like a ton of bricks. It was the little things. How the light moved through your hair and the dust particles danced in the air around you. It was the shade of your eyes. Reminding me why the sky is so beautiful during a clear day. It was the way you saw me. The way you let me see you. It was the way your hands moved, like they were meant to be touched. Where your fingertips ran over my skin, I could feel the electricity. It was your arms. Their strength. The way they could make my world stop spinning. Your heartbeat. The way it could call mine. It was…