The Girl I Remember

Sometimes I forget who she is.
The girl who loved “Moon River,” the girl who dreamed without daring
Sometimes I forget who she is.
The piano player, the flower picker, the one who always buys way too many cinnamon brooms
come Autumn.
The smiler, the feeler, the midnight dancer
The one who knows that sometimes the best remedy to a rough day is a candle, some Norah Jones, and
someone warm to lay next to
The rainy day dreamer, the walk taker, the nail painting optimist
The night-time romantic
The lover, tea drinker
The “sometimes I need you”

— I have been trying for so long to be so strong. But more than anything, the girl I really am just wants to wake up to the warmth of your arms around her, say “good morning” and smile, knowing I’ll be next to you every morning from now on.

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The Bed Meant for You

Did we miss the morning?

Somewhere between warm Autumn nights and coffee tinged afternoons I lost something.

Autumn would bring the warmth of the leaves and the blow of the breeze and the chill of Christmas would come in unexpectedly with the night air.

My heart would be warm and full with promises of lights cascading and dinners and stoves and friends with their laughter

somewhere between this city and the stars I lost something and I don’t know what it is.

Autumn leaves scatter past me in the wind and I walk into my lit apartment – the clean, empty bed a gentle reminder of the fact that I’m alone

and as the scent of a mahogany wood fire crackling with spices picks up in the air, I wish there was someone coming home.

My half eaten apple sits atop the counter and I glance there, thinking about how nice it would be to have you sitting next to me on the couch, laughing.

I’d climb into your arms and the warmth of your smile would melt it all away.

On the Line

empty hallways cast blurred images over the pieces of my heart left shattered by

weekends and holidays spent lying in someone’s arms

only a few shadows left in the dust of eyelashes, the slow blink and disappearance of

dancing, of promises and foggy Sunday mornings

i reach for the line when i need

something

-anything to burn through it all

Your sleepy voice and the presence of your warm heart

fill the empty spaces as we share stories, the things we love and the things that make us afraid

I ask you why you always pick up when I call

and the memories stream out of my heart

and the shadows turn from grey to gold

when I hear you say

“Because I like hearing you laughing with me on the other end.”

You Are

My Blue TentYou are my blue tent.

You are the Gerbera daisies I come home to every evening – the brightness lighting up the night as I turn the key to open my apartment door

You are the warmth I feel when I hear your voice

and the emptiness when I left you standing there

You are the park bench where I’ll never feel alone, and the laughter I could float away in.

You’re the sunrise over Central when everyone else is asleep but me, and you’re the coffee I’ll always take to my favorite place.

You are all of the stars in Manhattan.

Manhattan

Our Last Night

your smoldering eyes. burning blue like the depths of your mysterious magic.
i can’t tell you how perfect it was to lie there with you, listening to the music that mirrored my soul.

“don’t you dare, for one more second, be anything other than exactly who you are.”
will you come just for one more night?          just one more –
beautiful, beautiful night. we’ll lie there and forget the colors of the stars while we drown in the depths of our memories.
will you show me anything other than this darkness that consumes my mind
when it’s late at night at 4am and i can’t sleep
your image burned in my mind like a gaslamp in the middle of the street at 2am
it’s february and it’s cold
and i don’t know why but you make me feel so safe and so alone at the same time.