My hope.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “For Posterity.”

I hope you read these words
and hear my voice
as you read it out loud.
That you read it fast, like I talk,
two questions at once.

I hope you read this and know
that it’s about you,
that you see my smile
and feel my skin.

I want you to have known
every thought inside my head
so thoroughly,
even if we’ve never met.

Please sense that I bite my lip
to find just the right word
and swear like a sailor
but only in my head.

I need you to know that I don’t speak
because I prefer to listen,
not because I have
nothing to say
but because nobody asked.

Most of all,
if we ever meet,
I want you to smile
and embrace me
and say, “Here you are.”


Color 1

It’s the color you wipe from his lips after he’s kissed off your lipstick. When he whispers how he wants to take you, it’s the color of your blushing skin. When you make love, it’s the color left behind when he grips your thigh. When he comes home smelling of another, it’s the color of his eyes. When he confesses what he’s done, it’s the color of your hands after picking up the pieces of the glass you threw at his head. It’s the color of the taillights he sees when you leave. When you open the door every day for the next month, it’s the color of the flowers on the porch. When you finally say yes to another first date, it’s the color of your dress. It’s not the color you feel when you answer the door, but it is the fading color of the world when he sees you get in the car and drive away.


In the parking lot
after the football game
in my band uniform
(I was freezing)

you grabbed my hand
dropped your trumpet
backed me against the nearest car
(it was a truck)

my first kiss
you pulled back
smiled and kissed me again
(our friends were cheering)

you gave me your jacket
asked me to the homecoming dance
lead me inside
(you were still holding my hand)

Do Something

I want you to kiss me.
Not just a simple kiss,
grab my hips
back me against the nearest wall
and kiss me in the most passionate way you can muster.

I want you to hold my face in your hands and kiss me
in the most longing manner,
so that I remember with every kiss,
that I am yours,
that in that moment I am all that exists to you.

Do something romantic,
just once,
even though it’s not your nature.
Tell me how you feel,
how I make you feel,
so I know I have not faded to the background.

Kiss me like you’re afraid to lose me
because you just might if you don’t.


“Who takes care of you?”

The question of the hour.

Simple enough.

“I do,” I answered,

but of all the people around me,

including myself,

the truth was

“No one.”


Use your hands

to cup the back of my head when you kiss me

use your thumbs

to wipe away my tears

use the tips of your fingers

to touch me somewhere new

use your voice

to tell me how much you want me

use your damn hands

or let me go.

That’s Why

Instead of at a concert during my favorite song,

or in my favorite library,

or even in front of our friends,

we made the hike to the river,

in my flip-flops, because you said I should wear them

I made it, wheezing and angry,

because I saw you put the box in your pocket.

And that’s when I saw,

and I understood why,

even though I hate hiking,

you wanted to ask me

where I could see the most beautiful view,

because you know how much I’d love it.

That’s why I said yes.

There’s nothing more exciting and frustrating than having the middle of a story in your head, with no clue how to begin it. Do you finish the story first, then go back and worry about the start, or begin at the beginning?