Discretionary Love

Somehow, we speak telepathically. And also with my voice when I’m alone. Our shadow selves, the unseeable, were created stitched at the seams in union,

Your eyes are not a metaphor. I just meet them and stay there for a while, And I just keep looking.   They’re more like

You’re still in my contacts even though my phone is new. It’s the third upgrade I’ve made without deleting you. I might have pocket-dialed you

After a year, I consider cleaning out her work desk, the one and only place she wrote poetry, a nook under the basement steps, no

Today is our fortieth wedding anniversary. Divorced for thirty-two of those years- Happy Un-Anniversary. Did you pause an instant to          

He comes in stocking feet, moving on tiptoe through the dark, sometimes while I sleep, because he never sleeps. He occupies himself in small ways—

My sister told me today she keeps a poem I wrote her on our wall. I haven’t stepped foot in that house in ages (months,

She’s cleaning out closets, boxing up unused crockery and sorting through bookshelves. Everything is a landmine of memory. She’s promised her neighbour a bagful of

I never lay in your arms and spoke about lovers. Our covers were never safe enough To let the past drip from our lips Like

It wasn’t until well after the spark had first ignited the kindling that the campfire became self aware. Thrilled with her gift of life, she