Leaving

I wake at sunrise,
scramble the last four eggs.

The smell of coffee
percolates through the apartment.

From the bedroom,
the soft steady rhythm
of your snoring.

It all feels so right.
So natural.
So real.

Two years is almost eternity.

Tears begin to fall.
I burn the eggs,
dump them in the trash.

You wake to find me
sitting on the floor
by the big window,
unraveling.

You sit beside me,
hand on my shoulder,
run your fingers through my hair,
and I melt into you.

You don't ask why.

Mentor

The steady light
at the edge of the storm;
not the fire that burns,
but the lantern that shows the way.

No tangled threads or whispers of maybe;
only the peace of knowing
he will carry me
when the world weighs too much.

Unopened doors and lines never crossed,
trust forged in promises, in love
for the lives we’ve built,
the hearts we both hold elsewhere.

Just a strong hand on my shoulder,
a life raft in deep water,
a soft place to land;
and when silence settles between us,
it is not empty,
it is just enough.

A Mother's Grief

We sit in the silence of a room
whose walls once held laughter.
Fingers trace the threads
of a quilt now frayed
with confusion and grief.

Her hands rest empty in her lap,
clenching, loosening,
grasping for something to hold.

I know words are meaningless,
they would only scatter like dust,
too small to matter.

So I stay, my hand on her shoulder.
Remind her to breathe,
hold space where the world has caved in.

And in this quiet place,
where nothing can be mended,
nothing can be undone,
she knows

I loved her too.

And I hope that helps,
somehow.

A Walk In The Woods

The path is soft beneath my feet,
damp crush of pine needles,
wind moves gently through the branches,
a whisper I can't quite hear.

Why did you let it happen?

Sunlight spills through the trees,
its gentle hands offer warmth without holding,
it lights diverging paths, but chooses none.

A bird startles from the underbrush,
its wings break silence into song
as it rises, weightless, into the sky.

Why do good hearts break sometimes?

A fallen tree, hollowed by time,
moss-wrapped like a wound long healed.
I run my fingers over its bark,
rough with years, but still beautiful.

Did you see me that night, when I was small and afraid?

A young deer lifts its head in the clearing,
watchful, fearful, but unflinching,
as if it somehow knows I mean it no harm.

I walk on, the weight of old wounds
settling in my shadow,
but the stream keeps flowing,
leaves keep falling,

and though He says nothing,
I know He walks beside me.

If...

If the days had not blurred into nights
of locked doors and hollowed eyes;
if pills and needles had not been her refuge,
maybe I would have grown in softer soil.

If she hadn’t found me curled
on the floor naked and unraveling,
or my voice had been a whimper
instead of a sob;

if his hands had never touched,
and my skin had stayed my own,
or my bed was just a bed,
and not a place where I drowned;

if she hadn't turned
to face the monster
with all the savagery
of a mother defending her child,

maybe she would never
have outrun her own demons.

Crossing Paths

Something different from the usual poetry today

--

Late one night, leash in hand, a man walks with his dog. Their footsteps fall softly on the wet pavement, as a full moon lights their way, a pale witness to their quiet pace. At the corner, he chooses left, but the dog pulls hard to the right.

That same night, a girl stands on a railing, her heart heavy with the weight of all that's broken, a bridge beneath her feet, the world stretched out far below. She tries to breathe, tries to find courage in the wind, and she wonders how the night could be so full of silence yet still so loud.

The dog tugs harder on the leash, and the man gives in. Right, then left, then right again to the bridge that crosses the ravine, where the dog suddenly stops in his tracks, his ears perking up and body tense with apprehension. The man follows his gaze, and he sees her. A silhouette standing on the railing, like a shadow on the edge of nothing.

"Hey!" he calls out, his voice breaking with the realization of what he's about to witness.

He steps closer, as the girl turns her eyes away from the darkness below.

"Are you okay?" he asks softly, stepping slowly towards her. "Please don't," his voice trembling, almost pleading.

For a moment, she sees something in his eyes, a stranger, but somehow the right one. His words break the spell, just enough for her to hear her own heart. "Do I look like I'm okay?" she replies, in a voice thick with sarcasm, but breaking at the edges. The man chuckles slightly, realizing what a stupid question to ask of someone standing on a railing on a bridge above a ravine in the middle of the night. His slight smile breaks the tension and she notices his eyes again. Some people have eyes that see directly into your soul. You can't hide from eyes like that. She looks away.

He extends his hand, reaching out to her. "You don't want to do this. Please. Give me your hand," his voice firmer now, almost commanding.

She hesitates.

"Talk to me," he says. "Tell me what brought you to this."

"It's a long story," she replies, her voice weak and nearly inaudible.

"I've got all night," he says firmly, planting his feet, his hand still outstretched. The dog sits at attention by his side, like a soldier.

There are moments that change everything, and they both know this is one of those moments. Whatever happens next will change both of their lives forever. The girl looks at his hand, then his eyes, and she sees it again. There's a kind of warmth there, a compassionate something that she can't quite name. The voices inside her head shout at the other voices inside her head. But one voice, louder than all the others screams, "Talk to him."

She hesitates a moment longer, then takes his hand. He helps her down from the railing, and they sit on the bridge and talk. Hours pass, until the first light of dawn appears, while the dog sleeps quietly at their feet.

I could tell you the story wraps up neatly from there; that he walks her home to a fairy tale ending where she lives happily ever after, but that would be a lie. It's messy and complicated. But she chose not to die that night, and she lived to fight another day. And that's enough, for now.

Years have passed since then, and the man still thinks about it from time to time and wonders. If he had taken a different route — turned left instead of right — would she have jumped? He likes to think it wasn’t just luck, that something larger guided their paths to cross that night. Maybe it was God, or destiny, or just the quiet pull of the universe. Or maybe it was just the stubborn instinct of a dog who wanted to go right instead of left. But somehow, in that moment, the universe got it right — a thin thread of fate woven tightly between a man and a girl, and a dog and a bridge, under the pale light of a full moon.

--

True story. I've tried many times to capture that night in a poem, but I've never been able to. So here it is in prose, and that will have to do for now.

That girl was me, and I can't say for sure if I would have jumped or not. I was hesitating, trying to find the courage — or the cowardice, depending on your point of view — it takes just the right combination of both, I think, and I don't know if I had enough of either. But I do know that I'm glad I didn't. And I do believe God (or the universe, if you prefer) sometimes puts the right people in the right place at just the right time. I don't know why that happens sometimes but not others — maybe it's part of some grand Master Plan, or maybe it really is just random chance — but, random or not, I feel like I owe the universe a debt of gratitude, and I'm trying my best to pay it forward whenever I can.


In the US, dialing 988 will connect you to the national suicide prevention hotline.
Here is a list of hotlines in other countries: https://blog.opencounseling.com/suicide-hotlines/
If you ever find yourself in that awful place and can't see another way out, please, please let someone help you. There is always someone who cares. Always.

Fighting Shadows

I reach for you in the dark,
your fingertips trace
the outline of my ring,
reflecting the promise it holds.

You are patient and steady,
but my past flickers between us,
shadows cast by cruel hands
that still linger.

Desire and memory collide,
wanting, despite the fear,
my body whispers in the dark,
begs to be heard,
but my mind won't listen.

Love is softer than memory,
and I'm learning to let you in.

I know your hands.
When they reach,
they will only be gentle.

I love you.

But tonight,
I'm still fighting shadows.

Poems

It's the empty seat next to you
on the school bus, while other kids
laugh and play and sing and whisper secrets
across the aisle.

The sharp edges of schoolyard cruelty,
hallway chants of "freak",
and lunch tables that always seem full
when you try to sit down,
the quiet ache of knowing
you are not like them
and never will be,
and stinging laughter behind you
as you walk toward the door
pretending not to care.

It's hollow echoes
of what happened after the school dance,
the sound of your childhood
shattering in a way
no one else can hear,
and prayers whispered
into your pillow that night,
Please, God,
turn back time
and undo what was done,
and let me breathe before I break.

It's sitting by grandpa’s hospital bed,
his hand cold in yours,
watching his chest rise and fall
until it doesn’t anymore,
and the helplessness of love
collapsing against the weight of time,
the silence that follows,
and the unbearable truth
that love can’t keep a heart beating.

Or standing on a bridge
under a full moon
on a cold December night,
wondering how long it will take
to hit the rocks below,
and a stranger who breathlessly cries Please don't,
and teaches you that no matter how dark the night,
the sun will always rise tomorrow,
and bring with it a new day,
a new chance to live and breathe
and think and feel
and laugh and cry
and hurt and love.

It's all the quiet wreckage,
forgotten spaces,
things that broke you
and things that made you whole.

These are all seeds
that take root in your heart,
splinter and bloom,
and one day grow into poems.

The Simplest Things

And I laugh,
because of course you are.

It's not that the joke is funny,
it's just that it's so you.

I can feel you next to me,
even though we're miles apart.

And I picture you smiling,
that quiet tilt of your mouth,
like you know something the universe forgot to tell me.

It’s nothing,
just a handful of words across a screen.

But it's everything.

You’re there.
And that’s all I need tonight.

The Bench In Boston Public Garden

There's a worn wooden bench,
where a bearded man once sat,
with sorrow in his eyes and warmth in his voice,
and told a broken kid from Southie
about love, loss, and Shakespeare,
and how none of that
could be learned from a book.

Softened by time,
and carved with the weight
of a thousand passing thoughts,
it sits beneath an old oak tree,
watching the water move with the wind.

I sit there sometimes,
in the cool of early spring,
and talk to God.
Or myself.
Or maybe Robin Williams.
Nothing to prove,
nothing to defend,
just to listen
for any answers that might come.

The bench still carries their voices,
a lesson drifting out from the wood,
waiting for another restless mind
to sit down and listen to the wind.

Your move, chief.

When I Needed Her Most

When I was seven,
my mom was a ghost
with heavy eyelids and a shaking voice.
She floated through the house,
not seeing me,
not seeing anything.

I hid for a while in the quiet
of my grandparents’ home,
where the air smelled like Sunday dinners
and safety.
They never spoke about why I was there,
or where mom went.
They just held me a little tighter
when the nights felt long.

She came back different,
eyes clearer, voice steadier,
but I still watched her from a distance,
waiting to see if she would disappear again.
She did, a couple more times.

Until the day she learned
the man she trusted
was the wolf at my bedroom door.
When I needed her most,
she found herself.
And it finally set her free.

Maybe things happen
for a reason, sometimes.

Ode To My Tiny Boobs

Oh tiny twins, so small and sweet,
a modest curve, yet so elite.
No weight to bear, no ache to bring,
a freedom light as birds in spring.

No wires poke, no straps oppress,
no need for push-up’s false caress.
In a T-shirt, or a dress,
you shine with effortless finesse.

You never bounce, you never strain,
and when I run, you don't complain.
No sag, no jiggle, no bouncy mess,
Just perky charm with zero stress.

Society may praise the grand,
and mine are small, you understand.
But beauty comes in every size,
and mine? A gift, a sleek surprise.

So here’s to you, my perfect pair,
no heavy weight, no extra care.
For confidence it's plain to see,
my tiny boobs are perfectly...me.

Once Upon A Bridge

Are you okay?

The world never promised to be kind,
but she hadn’t asked for kindness.
She just asked for guidance.

And somehow, their paths converged,
like two raindrops meeting on a windowpane.
Maybe it was fate.
Or God.
Or just the quiet pull of the universe,
bringing them to the same place
at exactly the right moment.

She stepped down from the railing
because he helped her remember
the warmth of sunlight on her face,
the way stars hang in the sky like fireflies,
nights wrapped in the arms of people
who still believed in her.

Now she wakes each morning
with the taste of hope in her mouth,
and she is grateful
for the kindness of a stranger,
and thankful that she chose
to give the world a second chance.

----

In the US, dialing 988 will connect you to the national suicide prevention hotline.
Here is a list of hotlines in other countries: https://blog.opencounseling.com/suicide-hotlines/
Please let someone help you. There is always someone who cares. Always.

A Visit With My Friend On Her Birthday

The ground is softer now
than the last time I came,
and the trees are starting
to show bits of green.
You'll like the shade
under this big oak tree
when summer comes.
I know how much
you like shade.

The wind pulls at my hair,
tries to carry me somewhere else.
Anywhere else.
But I need to be here today.
I brush away the leaves and twigs
from the base of your headstone.

I hate that word.
Headstone.
I hate that it's here,
I hate that it's yours,
that it has your name on it.
I touch the surface,
trace your name with my finger.
The letters feel colder than I expected.

I stay for awhile, say a prayer,
listen to the sound of my voice
dissolve into the quiet.

I still wish I knew why, Anna.

I know the answer is locked away
in a place I can't reach.
But I still want to know.
The road you were on was yours,
but I would have walked it
beside you.
You were never alone.

You left a silence I can’t fill,
and a question I can’t answer.
But still, I stand here.
I talk to you.
And I hope, somehow,
that you hear me,
and know that you were loved.

 

Finding Faith

I searched for it in books,
ivory towers lined up on a shelf,
pages filled with answers
too small to hold infinity.

But I’ll never know the ocean
by tracing waves on a page.
I need to wade in,
feel the pull of the tide,
taste the salt on my lips,
and let the current carry me
to places reason never could.

When logic fails,
something undeniable stirs,
something that was always there,
waiting for me to let go,
to stop thinking,
to start feeling.

And I've found something
bigger than myself.
Not an equation to solve
or a theorem to prove,
but a presence.

Like standing in sunlight
after a long winter,
warmth doesn't need proof
to be real.

 

Quiet Understanding

The stem of your wine glass
turns slowly between your fingers,
while my mind races somewhere far away.

Our eyes meet in the middle,
and just for a moment,
we speak without words.

You finish the glass,
set it down and move closer,
take my hand in yours.

Your eyes whisper,
It’s safe to fall here.
So I do.

Your arms envelop me,
quiet the storms in my head,
and in a single breath,

I'm at peace.

 

Powerless (Part 3 - "She Still Dreams")

Mostly she remembers the quiet,
the sound of her own heartbeat.
How she stopped resisting,
let the tide pull her under.

Submission.

Fingers curled into the sheets,
knuckles white,
breath caught between
a sob and a scream.

Powerless.

Some nights
she still feels him.
That prickly feeling
on the back of her neck.
A shadow behind the door,
hot breath against her skin,
a ghost with a name she knows.

When she wakes,
the dream lingers,
clinging like damp air,
like cold hands
that will never
let go.

 

Powerless (Part 2 - "A Thousand Words")

Head lowered in submission,
pressed against the wall,
yielding in prelude
to the storm.

No protest, no resistance,
only the silence of surrender,
the quiet weight of knowing
No is not an option.

Fists clenched,
knees rooted firmly to the floor,
the storm comes without asking.

And a thousand words
pass through her lips,
powerless without a voice.

 

Powerless (Part 1 - "Compliance")

She lets go,
not because she wants to,
but because the fight has already left her.

The floor rises to meet her knees.
Her mouth falls open,
not to speak,
not to protest,
just empty,
waiting.

Without resistance
she complies,
like a rag doll.
Silent,
powerless,
inanimate.