I dreamt of a boy who died
in my mind, at least.
“How you been?”
He asked—
familiarity in his voice.
Creole flowed but
Translation didn’t.

Two mother tongues—
One unlearned, the other untaught.

We wandered through my town
the canal was pristine.
Potholes filled.
This was where i grew up
but how could I be another foreigner
calling this home?

“A place stops being that place
when you leave.”
The Griga I knew was a memory,
a symbol of who I could have been,
maybe of who I should have been.

Perhaps my destiny feels hazy
because I cheated fate when we left.

Tonight’s opera ended on a
discordant note.
Clarity seen through the tears
I left on her shoulder.

My unstable peace shattered
by a reality no longer ignored

A slow, unsteady breath
in a losing tiff
with the comfort she offered.
Percussive heartbeat tempered by her whispers.

You want what I won't be
Desire, meet deaf ears.

The past resonates in the present,
but this path cultivates resent

Unmade plans overlooked and
understated pacts misunderstood.

Thunder warns of lightning struck--
speaking up only after the damage is done.

It’s what I used to feel that bothers me
but I’ve made peace with the person
I used to be.
Poem after poem sewn, see—
this reflection hazy but I’m certain
I’m closer to uncertainty

It’s how i haven’t felt that worries me.
A peace distant from intimacy—
curtain drawn over mirrors.
I can see myself but incomplete.

Water crawls
It carries sediment, splits rock
Slows and slows, but never stalls.
Hydrophobic this,
Arc’teryx that—
waterproof now, but for how long?

This is familiar.
A perfume called nostalgia--
here, time and again.

Sometimes I catch myself dwelling:
on all the plans we made.
There were so many,
it‘s overwhelming.

In my head,
I'd built a whole life with you.
And after a year of trying to forget,
I couldn’t quite sever the connective tissue.

The full moon was fun.
I suppose it was familiar—
indulging once more
in this perfume called nostalgia.

Then there's always this reminder:
three birthdays we’ve known each other.
And the only gift you’ve given me
was some other nigga's hoodie.

But now our story is over.
Twin flame extinguished,
friendships ended,
ghosts slain.

I always thought the end would be more
explosive… but peace is boring.
So thank you for my 22nd—
A birthday without worry.

​

A marriage of convenience
much longer than was needed.
A shallow “hope you find healing,”
reminding me of
journal entry after entry unheeded.

New feelings.

Footsteps striking ground with unease.
People I don’t like to please?

Companions turn co-conspirators
Cannibalizing what little I shared.

Hungry for more
words to misconstrue,
to hear I’m missing you,

You’re Insincere.
What morals and values?

Companions turn co-conspirators
Cannibalizing what little I shared.

High road and that but
I hope bothers you a little—
that even in my absence,
You turned to the friends I had given you.

A familiar scent reminds me of
a sea I call home.
Salt water, sun, a taste of
Her skin paired with rum

On the beach conversations chase
paths wet fingers trace
on calendar dates yet to
come

My gaze beholden by Freedom.
With hammock bare, passions clear
Her choices left are
hampered, hamstrung, hindered

We dreamt of white coral sands.
She got rocky shoals.

I was left
with
fond memories
yet to happen.

"I'm sorry," I said,
unsure of what I'd done
but after two days
without speaking
my pride was undone.

Discordant notes turned music
in my vacuum chamber of peace
chaos remains alluring but
I'm enjoying me.
by myself, and
I don't need a band
to be the star of my own show.

I stumbled into a Midnight affair
with a divorcee.
Unbeknownst to me,
A conflict was brewing.

We were up late—
the three of us.
Two in her bed and
one ear cupped to the floor.

Another toxic partner, and
yet another messy breakup led
to another tragic story
such are the women I go for.

She spoke
and I heard
that she hoped
love would return.
Not now but
in time.
I don't know how
but
She’ll be fine.

On the bus home,
roads slick with rain.
Writing poems on my phone
Wet transfer to the night train.

A warm embrace of blankets await.

My First Juneteenth
Good company bolstered by
a soft breeze.

Gin,
and a little juice plus
packed greens.

Bucket hat, shades
a string of performers
on stage.

Surrounded by people
not suspicious--
of me.

Brown skin pulls me across
The ocean of land between us

I don’t know her but
Pictures bring thoughts,
Both warm and devious

As the story in my head grows stronger
The miles between us feel longer

I’ll traverse mountains and plains,
take the train, bring champagne,
If the landscapes of her mind
Await.