Easily Smitten

Remnants.

Thu, 18 Feb 2010 20:14:00 -0500

There are pieces of her,
here, there
remnants that linger,

that do not let me forget.

Her hairband on the dresser:
I now wear it around my wrist.
Her washcloth hanging
from the towel rack.
Her box of tissues
beside the pillow where she slept,
poorly (my fault),
always facing away from me.
Leftovers in the fridge:
today they are eaten, gone.
Ash dusting the hearth
after indoor picnics and bad movies.
A hairdryer sitting at the foot of my bed.
An empty ziplock bag at my closet door.
The aroma of the candle she left,
everywhere,
caressing me as I sleep.

Pieces of her —
they linger, stay
because I do not let them go.

I was too quick to let her go.

Christmas Eve.

Sun, 10 Jan 2010 19:44:03 -0500

‘Twas the night before Christmas,
and all through the house,
not a creature was stirring,
not even a mouse.

Little Mouse, as you know,
had gone far away,
to spend time with her family
on this Christmas day.

At home, Dinosaur stared
out the window with love,
and watched as the snow
fell from the sky up above.

He thought of Little Mouse,
surrounded by holiday cheer,
and was happy for her
even though he wished she was near.

Warm and cozy in PJs,
he missed his best friend,
but he knew he’d see her soon,
before next week’s end.

As he crawled into bed,
he exclaimed from afar:
“Merry Christmas, Little Mouse,
I love you, and RAWR!”

Ken.

Fri, 04 Dec 2009 18:44:00 -0500

“Love you,” she concedes,
But he hears her silent sigh;
Always second best.

Redolent.

Tue, 22 Sep 2009 00:00:00 -0400

Dreams
fitful, fantastic
woke me from sleep
smiling, laughing
looking across canyons
to find her perfectly-shut eyelids

looking out the window
to find masked creatures of the night.

I tugged at the corner of the duvet
shivering
but enjoying the sweet banana breeze.

Sticky

Wed, 19 Aug 2009 00:00:00 -0400

Fingers sticky from the fresh figs they had bought at the market, he eyed the swing set on the playground with childish glee. She caught his glance and smiled as he raced past the playscape bridge towards the empty swing.

At first, he was hesitant — the chains that supported the seat seemed flimsy, made for a small child and not a 200-pound grown man. With her encouragement, he discarded his hesitation, climbed on, dug his feet into the sand, and pushed off.

To his left, he noticed that she had joined him, swinging higher than he dared to go, laughing as the wind ruffled the folds of her sundress. He stole secret peeks at her smiling face each time their swinging arcs crossed.

Across the square, a tourist pointed a camera towards the swinging pair in an impromptu photoshoot.

They continued swinging. And he was happy.

Tempest

Tue, 21 Apr 2009 00:00:00 -0400

Is it raining where you are?

Are the drops tiptoeing across the palm of your hand, finding solace in the crevices of your finger joints?

Are the beadlets tickling the tip of your nose, then snaking down the maze of freckles upon your cheek?

Is the dampness filling the cracks of your lips, then gently flooding your mouth to settle on the top of your tongue?

Is the downpour soaking your fiery hair, leaving red strands dancing upon the face of your forehead?

Are the raindrops running rampant upon your skin, wrapping you in warm touches making you smile and sigh and leaving you in rapture in a way that I never could?

In a way that you would never let me?

Is it raining where you are?

Because I am standing here alone, parched, waiting for any glimpse of moisture to quench this dryness upon my skin that is leaving me thirsty.

Shades of Blue

Fri, 03 Apr 2009 00:00:00 -0400

This morning was one of those mornings in DC: rainy, windy. The type of morning where you arrive at work soaking wet even if you’re wearing a raincoat and using an umbrella.

I was walking to work under my blue umbrella this morning when I saw a young woman in a blue rainjacket — the same shade of blue as my umbrella — crossing the street. Her light brown hair was soaked under the hood of her blue jacket, strands running in front of her face as she waited for the light to change.

She looked up and noticed me watching her; she met my gaze.

As our paths crossed in the middle of the intersection, she flashed me a smile — the kind of smile that made the wind stand still and the rain freeze in mid-air — that felt like a ray of sunshine had just broken through the clouds to shine on me. I couldn’t just let her walk away.

I backtracked and asked if she needed an umbrella escort. She did, of course. Her name was Jackie, she preferred apple juice to orange juice (I learned at the convenience store where we stopped before heading to her office), and blue was her favorite color.

As I dropped her off at work, she smiled that same cloud-clearing and storm-stopping smile.

“See you next time it rains?”

See you next time it rains, indeed.

My Muse Ran Away

Sun, 29 Mar 2009 00:00:00 -0400

I used to write love poetry.

I used to write words that would
sing and dance
tell tales of romance
— all inspired by my muse.

But let me tell you some news.

See, my muse,
my muse ran away with another man.

She met him, as did I,
at the coffee shop.

Me,
covering the pages of my notebook
with lust-filled narratives.

Him,
highlighting the pages of his textbook
filled with mathematical derivatives.

He asked me the time.
I gave him the time to talk about
his frustrations;
his inability to sleep at night,
equations flying through his head
left and right.

And when he left the coffee shop,
try as a might,
from the edge of my pen
no words I could write.

Because as he walked away,
my muse also took flight.

That’s the news.
See, my muse,
my muse ran away with another man.

So now he’s out on the road
and I,
I am forsaken.

He thrills the crowds with tales of love
and hearts that are breaking.
And I look at him jealously,
because those are my words, my tales,
my thoughts for the taking.

That’s my muse.
Those are my stories.
That is my poetry that I have lost.

So now, I don’t write love poetry.

I don’t write poetry at all.

Instead, I watch the leaves fall
in front of my window and think,
“oh, that’s nice,”
instead of seeing the lyricism as they spin.
Once. Twice. Thrice.

Now I see lovers holding hands and
I just push to get by,
instead of watching their fingers
slowly intertwine.

Now, when I make love,
there is no orchestral symphony
in the background.
There is an absence of sound.

An absence of poetry.

So now I haunt the coffee shops,
searching for my muse
in the drawings of the artist,
in the words of the poet,
in the dreams of the waitress
serving me coffee until she lands her big break.

I can not find her.
My muse, that is.

I find the artist willing to share her drawings
through the touches of her fingers upon my back.

I find the poet willing to share her words
through the brushes of her lips upon my face.

I find the waitress willing to share her dreams
in her screams,
in her screams of emotion when we caress.

But not love.
Not love poetry.

I can not find her.
My muse, that is.

So when we are done and they start to inquire
will you write a poem about me?
About what just transpired?

I tell them no.
I don’t write love poetry anymore.

And they look at me hurt
turn around and leave me
with a wave of their hand,
but they do not understand
that my muse,
my muse ran away with another man.

Plugged

Fri, 13 Feb 2009 00:00:00 -0500

For Valentine’s Day, I’m buying you earplugs.

Not just because everyone needs some respite from my incessant blathering, but also because I snore.

Snoring may not seem like the worst of my vices. After all, I talk too much, I’m extremely overweight, I walk too slowly, I’m horribly indecisive, I cry too easily; the list goes on.

But see, even though you’re far away, every night I dream of you lying here next to me. I dream of sleepy conversations as we drift in and out of consciousness. I dream of whispering good night as we stare at each other with tired eyes. I dream of feeling your hair on my face as you restlessly roll through the night. I dream of kissing you on the forehead as I run off to work before the sun rises.

Every night, I dream of you lying here next to me. Every night, I worry that my snoring is keeping you awake — even though you may be far away.

For Valentine’s Day, I’m buying you earplugs. I hope you sleep well tonight.

Grown Up.

Mon, 08 Dec 2008 00:00:00 -0500

Outside my window, snowflakes tiptoe across gusts of wind before parachuting to the ground.

Fifteen stories below my window, a young boy reaches down to pick up a handful of greyish-white powder off the ground and comes up with a mitten-full of densely-packed snow. He cups his other mitten over the pile in his hand in an attempt to form a vaguely-spherical snowball ready to be thrown at the young girl in front of him.

The young boy fixes his gaze at the back of the young girl’s head, running his eyes across the ridges at the bottom of her bright yellow toque, trying to find the perfect target for his snowball. Less than a second later, he raises his mitten, squints his eyes to focus in on his prey, and cocks back his elbow to get the necessary torque for his throw.

He pauses.

The young boy, as if suddenly possessed, drops his arm to his side, cups the snowball with both his mittenned-hands, and runs up to the young girl in the bright yellow toque and hands her the snowball. A gift. Not a weapon, or instrument of pain or humiliation, but instead a physical manifestation of the fact that he was thinking of her.

She smiles.

Fifteen stories above, at my window, I smile too. Because I remember that I was that boy once, and that even though I’m behind my window and not packing a snowball in my mittens to give to you as a gift, I’m still thinking of you.

marked

Sat, 20 Sep 2008 00:00:00 -0400

making love
on the beams of the
Eiffel Tower

sixty feet in the air
on a warm September night

not only requires
confidence
fearlessness
an affinity for heights
a fine sense of balance
insanity

but also is
as we later learned
highly illegal

not sure
what gave us away

our awkward bodies
glistening
in the blue and white tower lights

or your skirt
draped
over the side
flapping in the wind —
proof that we were there
proof that we had conquered
our fears
the heights
and our hesitancy to reach out
and touch each other in the dark

Concerto

Wed, 13 Aug 2008 00:00:00 -0400

She plays the grand piano
with a delicate rage, creating a
calm fury
with her soft touches.

The audience:
enraptured by the rapid
movement of her fingers as they
dance
across the keys,
enthralled by the sounds she creates
with her instrument
as it responds to her every
touch,
tickle,
tap.

She makes music.

She makes melodies that move
mountains and hearts
at the same time,
dancing to the same rhythm,
crumbling at the same soulful sighs
that escape the piano at her
fingers’ caress.

That night,
I run my fingers across her
bare thighs,
playing a delicate concerto that
erupts
into a symphony of pleasure
as we breathe together.
Perfect harmony.

Missed Connection #4,131

Fri, 25 Apr 2008 00:00:00 -0400

To the girl in the brown jacket and brown boots on the Piccadilly line,

I wish that you had smiled.

To the girl in the brown jacket and brown boots on the Piccadilly line who got on at Heathrow and sat directly across from me even though the entire car was empty,

I wish that you had smiled.

To the girl in the brown jacket and brown boots on the Piccadilly line who got on at Heathrow and sat directly across from me even though the entire car was empty and who spent the majority of the ride staring at her phone but occasionally glanced at me when she thought I wasn’t looking,

I wish that you had smiled.

To the girl in the brown jacket and brown boots on the Piccadilly line who got on at Heathrow and sat directly across from me even though the entire car was empty, who spent the majority of the ride staring at her phone but occasionally glanced at me when she thought I wasn’t looking and who tapped me on my knee to tell me that I had dropped my pen,

I wish that you had smiled.

If you had smiled, you’d be much more than simply

the girl in the brown jacket and brown boots on the Piccadilly line who got on at Heathrow and sat directly across from me even though the entire car was empty, who spent the majority of the ride staring at her phone but occasionally glanced at me when she thought I wasn’t looking, who tapped me on my knee to tell me that I had dropped my pen

and who rushed off the train before I had the chance to say thank you.

Table 65

Thu, 07 Feb 2008 00:00:00 -0500

The waitress at Le Pain Quotidien sees me staring into the crevices of the brick wall to my left, lost in thoughts of work, life, and love.

Always love. My mind wanders upon the cozy couples enjoying their tartines and the solitary artists scribbling on their sketchbooks with passion.

The waitress at Le Pain Quotidien sees me staring into the crevices of the brick wall to my left, lost in thoughts of work, life, and love.

She brings me my coffee.

Always love. My wanders upon my affection for this city’s narrow-laned roads and the fluttering of my heart every time I hear a child laugh.

The waitress at Le Pain Quotidien sees me staring into the crevices of the brick wall to my left, lost in thoughts of work, life, and love.

She brings me my coffee, winks ever so slight, and says with a smile,

“If you want to stare at something more interesting than bricks, you can always stare at me.”

Always love.

Lyricism

Wed, 21 Nov 2007 00:00:00 -0500

Dialogue is overrated.

Instead, I want to listen to
the melody of her features,
the harmony of her contours,
the beat of her movements,
while I talk to her in tones
of awe and appreciation.

Why have conversation
when she can tell me stories
of her beauty
in the music of her smile?

Wake Up Call

Tue, 20 Nov 2007 00:00:00 -0500

Her voice
through the door
as she wakes me up for breakfast
is like a serenade
that lifts me
from the depths of my slumber
to a perch above the heavens
where I bask in the sunshine
of her smile
and float upon the clouds
of her ambition.

To me, she is beautiful beyond perception.
Sadly, I never make it down for breakfast.

Ode to the Fat Man

Thu, 11 Oct 2007 00:00:00 -0400

In the morning,
after a night of making love so
tasty
that she now craves
lemons and sour candies
to chase the taste of my sweetness
from her mouth,

she dismisses me,

telling me to come the next night
to resume our clothesless coital fight
upon her pillows in the shimmer of the moonlight
through her window.

During the day, however, I am shunned;
my presence hidden away like her
dirty little secret
that she dares not utter.

Because you see,
women like her don’t days guys like me,
even though I give her bliss
and make her moan in ecstasy
every time my tongue decides to break free.

Women like her
date rock-band bassists and hockey stars,
date law school graduates in fancy cars,
date investment bankers in exquisite pinstripe suits,
instead of freelance writers
who have a pound our two,
or thirty-five,
to lose.

So I play the fat guy in daylight,
lover at night:
when her friends are around,
I’m hidden from sight,
but alone in her apartment
I’m her guilty delight.

But please, don’t think I’m here to complain.

When it comes to her, I know where I stand.
So today, instead, this is an
ode to the fat man:
the portly man with the Buddha-shaped frame
that jiggles when he laughs
and brings back warm memories of cookies and milk
and forgotten histories.

Because, you see, my ancestors —
as mixed up as they are —
they were fat men too,
but not the kind of fat man that you could just
shoo away,
making them come out and play
only at your whim and say.

See, my great-great-great grandfather
was an Arab bedouin whose large stomach
was a testament to his wisdom.
He would cross the desert
spreading his knowledge with joy
and was beloved by every girl and boy.
He wore his size with humility and grace
even though he tended to take up a bit too much space.

And another one of my forefathers
wore extra-large kurtas
as people came from across India to trade with him.
The one honest merchant in all of Gujarat,
he would lay his wares on his belly
and give a fair price
and became to be known as being truthful and nice,
though he sometimes over-binged on curry and rice.

But my lineage is also littered with past royalty:
the son of a son of a son of a daughter
whose father was an East African king
who wore his girth like a medal of honor.
A man whose size
called for respect and made him great,
a man whose steps shook the ground
because of his power,
but also his weight.

So when I
have to play the fat guy,
I accept the position,
because I know great fat men
are part of my tradition.
I come from a line of
fat teachers,
fat merchants, and
fat kings,
and all of them together
have shaped the greatness I bring.

So you can show off your skinny-jeans boyfriend
with shoulders less broad then yours,
but remember one thing when you’re on your back
feeling unstimulated, bored, and ignored:

When the lights go dim
and your clothes come off
and the air fills with passion and heat,
as overweight lovers go, I’d be hard to beat,
and I can guarantee your pleasure
because you see,
fat guys know how to eat.

Theater

Sat, 29 Sep 2007 00:00:00 -0400

Improv night:
where you and I both
practice
telling each other lies

— the more outrageous they are,
the more believable they seem —

in order to
create
a barely-plausible scene
where we go from being
simply stage hands
on each other’s bodies
to seasoned actors
in a sizzle reel.

Steam Engine

Fri, 28 Sep 2007 00:00:00 -0400

The slow rumble of the train
overhead
is our lullaby
that rocks us to sleep
as we lay in
suspendedmotion
in our hammock
tied under the elevated tracks.

I kiss you
vigorously
to chase the taste of
dripping axle grease
from our mouths
before
an errant wheel skid
sparks our passions
and our hammock
aflame.

Our embers will tell the story of our fiery romance.

Watercolors

Fri, 21 Sep 2007 00:00:00 -0400

Before you leave,
I ask you to paint me a picture.
To stand in front of your easel
and use your palette
to splash tales of our lives
with your watercolor set.

Before you leave,
I ask you to paint me a picture of you:
so that when the ripples of the reflection clear
I get a glimpse of me too.

But before you leave,
you ask me to write you a story.

And so I submerge myself
into a stream of consciousness
to write you a story
where we make love so furiously
that we have to hold on
to the headrests of riverbeds
to keep ourselves from being swept away
by the current.
Where we wash ourselves in
waves of caresses
to chase away the salt water
falling from our damp eyes;
where I send you spinning
in a whirlpool of bliss with each kiss;
where you make me sink
into a sea of pleasure
with each delicate touch
on my sweat-soaked skin,
to the point where I’m only left afloat
by clutching to the lilypads of paper
upon which I write you
tear-drop-stained love letters.
As if I’m your frog-prince
and you’ve looked beyond
the warts and the slime
to realize that, with a little time,
whatever we could have would be sublime.

I write your story.
Then, before you leave,
I ask you to paint me a picture.
To stand in front of your easel
and use your palette
to splash tales of our lives
with your watercolor set.

And so you plunge 20,000 leagues down
to the dark depths of my heart
and use your brush to trickle
beadlets of loneliness
that parch the dry grains of sand in my throat.
With every stroke,
you shower me in a navy blue darkness
and then let me wash up
on a surf of desolation.

And so you wet your canvas
with translucent images of future loves,
coming in waves,
until every memory of me
gets lost in an undertow of regrets,
pooling in sinkholes of forgetfulness.

I hesitate to place your painting on my wall.

And I realize now that
my choice of words wasn’t best,
and you may have misinterpreted
my simple request.
Because when I asked you to paint me a picture,
I didn’t want you to paint a scene
of who you will be,
because I know that the vision of your future
does not include me.

Instead, I wanted a picture
of who you are now,
so that when you leave me tomorrow,
I can still see
us
somehow.