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.

 

The Search Is On

Come let me write for you
As I watch a Pro Bono lecture
Take place right up front
While I sit right behind;

Many heads and ponytails
Many faces and spectacles
Many sleeping and many typing
All in the law fac auditorium;

Yet I don’t see you
Not your head nor ponytail
Not you sleeping nor typing
Where in the lac fac auditorium are you?

I wrote searching for you.