When I Write

I write when I’m on the train
When Albert Hammond sings and
When glimpses of you appear
In the ghosts of the shadows of others

Just for a moment be close to you
Pretend that I’m still holding you

And perhaps someday
When we’re done chasing our fantasies

Maybe love will bring you back to me.

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Making Tiles With Scrambled Eggs

the night after our first fight you ran
away. from me and from your abandoned necklace
i saw our love fade away into the break of day,
mirroring the shattered fragments of my

life (and heart) as i knew it. you’re no good. for me.
is all that is left of our love – an echo. or maybe

not so much an echo: at least an echo is a reciprocation;
my calls for your love bears no return.

Not Dreaming Anymore

Sometimes fantasy conflates
With reality
Through dreams

You have her in your arms
Then you open your eyes
And she’s gone

She was there waiting
For you to come with the car
But when you’re there she’s not anymore

When you next see her
She’s in someone else’s arms
Waiting for someone else’s car

All that’s left to twirl
Is your notion of reality
And not her tender curls

All because you are
Not dreaming anymore.