maybe that’s the hardest part

is it worth
the time to be
everything to everyone
but me?

i never saw myself
as anything more than
some writer you learned of
long after i ‘d expired.

maybe that’s the hardest part
of knowing/not whether you’
ll see these words some day far
or they’ll be recounted at gravesite
and forgotten soon after, like
a tombstone’s sentence and time’s
embrace, a dissipation of
all that once existed, seen
, but memory is only so that
even it gives in when loosened
hold, holding fast, slows.

Follies

She looks right through
Whatever facade I use
To hide a lack of preparation.

But, you learn by action
And never know until
She looks right through you.

I want to end there, but
Some force calls me
To be righteous for a change.

Without a chance to be
More than me, I
Lie awake and seem to fall.

When in spiraled dream,
I slide amongst rain,
Seeing the world tipsy-crazy.

I can’t stop thinking of that night
We danced amongst the dishes
And used the kitchen as a ballroom;
A couple twirls and attempted dips
Bringing the freshness of your smile
To our feet, firmly planted while
Floating on a tiled floor that didn’t
Know it’d see the laughter of dancers,
Or their follies.