at some point, enough is enough
and the goodbyes need to be said, the recriminations
displayed, maybe
not for all to see but to be laid out, this is why
i was aggrieved and this is why you were
not enough, to blow out the cobwebs
that have become thorns, to wrestle
past regret and animus and
resentment. while he was never one
for poetry, he was for words
laying out treatises and guides and paths for others to follow

i will miss him, if only there will be one less person
to share my rage with

how i long for the quiet, to be without a voice, to be here without being seen, without wanting to be seen, to be devoid of desire, to be voiceless, thoughtless, to only be the movement and the seeing and the hearing, to move through the world and have it wash over me, through me, as if i was the wind and leave no mark in it. to no longer hurt, or think about the hurt, or the hurt i’ve let left on everyone. i am tired of being the disappointment, i am tired of being disappointed, i am tried of feeling i’ve said too much, i’ve said too little, i should’ve said something, i should’ve said nothing at all. after this long road i’ve arrived at a place i never intended. i didn’t want to be this way. i just wanted to be near you, i wanted to watch you all. i wanted to hold you and laugh with you and cry with you. but instead this noise, this act, this spewing of bullshit that traps me into a configuration. into artifice.

i just want the quiet. i just want to be quiet.

my ioanna,

dream child, sprite who twirled around our living room, quiet and pensive by the windowsill, grown into an urban hippy overflowing with a deep connection to the world that seems to shun her. Over and over, ‘I dreamt you’ what a thing to say to a child, the expectation, the hope, the confusion, what was I in this dream of yours? Do I measure up? Can I live in that dream, is it as harsh as the real one?

dream child, every hope before you, some yours but mostly made up of everybody else’s. is it hard on you, the anticipation of the false move? The meaning to say not quite aligning with the thing that was said. Is there remorse? Oh, my darling daughter, to already have remorse, what a terrible thing. It hurts when I think of it, I want to take it all away, the thorns hidden beneath the roses, the disappointment, the awkward pause that isolates you and drives you deeper into your mind

dream child, you always came to me. I remember. Sitting outside, smoking, you joined me on the porch, some chatter, some nonsense but a quiet settling, watching the world go by. Early mornings when you came down to the basement where I slept from a night’s worth of work in the dark. I could hear your bated breath, the glee, the anticipation, should I wake him? I don’t want to wake him. I should wake him. I could literally hear it.

dream child, I lied to you. You are nothing like I dreamt of. The dream was an idea, a figment of a desire to protect something precious, some manifestation of the love I share with you mother. But you are so much more. There are figures of art that when you look at them, they make your soul sing, they make your soul weep. Like looking at the sky when away from the city, an infinite darkness with a million pinpoints of something terrifyingly far and away.

And that is what I feel when I now look at you. An infinite sky, something beautiful and endless, but instead of silence, instead of an immutable distance, there is a voice that calls to me, that always beckons for me to join her, to join the pure wonder of who you are and becoming.

love, always,
me

most of the time, in my dreams, i am resigned to all the horror and sadness. i’ve seen loved ones die. i’ve had teeth explode out of my mouth. i’ve seen you and them all leave me over and over, angry with me, overjoyed, not thinking of me at all. and each time, i am unaffected, an odd observer to my own life. it is what it is. it was always meant to be this way. null and void to the core.

today, this morning, in the midst of such a dream, of our mortality, i couldn’t stop weeping, sobbing, i was inconsolable, i couldn’t be held, balled up into myself, heaving, overwhelmed.

and i woke up.

not a tear, just an immense emptiness. the memory of the dream so vivid but not one tear on my face. i felt nothing, passionless, weightless, i was nothing. where did it come from?

more importantly, where did it all go?

my love,

it’s been all amuck. i’ve been all amuck. we’ve built a foundation that has begun to take root. i see a path out of the woods, i see the shore. i see the waves breaking against the jetty, i hear the promise of an end in the tide. i see the seagulls coasting the sky like kites waiting for me to take hold.

and as we approach, the soil turns sandy and our feet slip, footfalls momentarily stuck and slide. and this is where we are at, so close but it feels infinitely harder. this is the shortest stretch but the most arduous.

and of all the things i promised you in this love-life of ours, this is the one dream i have my sights on, the one thing that all this effort has been geared towards. and it’s crystalizing before us, it’s as clear as the horizon in the distance and the sea that kisses it with the sun.

will you join me my love? will you dance with me through this hurdle of dunes and petrified wood? will you sit with me in the sand and let the breeze play with your hair? will you laugh with me as we remember when our children were scouting for seashells? will you hold my hand as we watch the sunset before the moon enshrouds us all?

it’s just a little bit further. it’s right there, past the muck.

i can taste it.

love, always
me

the machine moves, it has momentum. the only friction, could i have done more? it is never enough, it never ends. yes, it becomes background noise, the taunts of incompleteness, of being broken, a hobble of a man, no, not a man. there is nothing gendered about this, strictly shuffling, before the designation, before the naming, it happened all before you were even named: a still birth that crawls about and pushes on, scarred and scarring, unforgiving in your pursuit, unforgiven for what you have done

mikey,

I saw the snow and I was filled with wonder. I saw the snow and it was falling, thick, puffy pieces finding their way gently to the ground. Finding lost brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles and cousins. Look they’re getting together, they’re getting ready to party. I saw the snow blanket the street, the car at the curb, the lawn, the driveway, the car in the driveway, the steps to the porch, a blanket across the porch. I saw the snow falling and how it covered everything and it was pure and white and lovely and a quiet understanding that this was just for me, maybe, if we were good, it would last a little longer for all of us. I saw the snow and remembered you in it, I remember you bursting with laughter, missing front teeth, so many years missing those two front teeth. And between then and now the teeth have come in, the smile just as charming, even more so. Making snow angels, a joyous glee, a sense of utter reckless joy. Which I saw from the window, wishing you were next to me, watching it fall.


ioanna,

The year ends, the year wraps up, we look over our shoulders and wonder where did it all go. What did we do, who did we dance with, where were the edges, what have we seen? The year ends, it wraps itself around us, gentle collage, vivid bright hues, warm sunlight, moonlit shade, the trace of a song whose hook is on the edge of our tongues. A deep yearning, a resolution, an accounting of promises. The year ends, we look over our shoulders, we gage its momentum, what will carry us forward, what got us here, what have we left behind? New habits, bad habits, new routines, new footsteps. We remember, this is how you walk, one foot in front of another. The year ends, wraps around our shoulders, comforts us, pours us hot coco and asks us if we want marshmallows. Who says no to marshmallows, no one says no to marshmallows. The comfort of the past, warm mug cupped in our hands, cuddled together, we look ahead. We look under the tree, just right there, to see what the present will bring us.


my love,

My love my love my love my love me love my love my love my love who I cannot complete my love I that I could not imagine my love I dreamt and wept and suddenly found by happenstance my love where we cuddled in the cold where we lazily bared with the heat my love we’ve walked miles and miles together through concrete through mountains through snow banks through bitter winds through sudden rainstorms that we laughed at my love there can never be enough christmases there can never be enough presents there can never be enough lights or ornaments or wreaths or mistletoe my love there can be never be enough of my love there can never be enough of the little ones tearing through gift wrapping papers and the utter joyous destruction of passionate children born of my love my love my love my love my love my love my love my love my love

always,
me

I walk through the streets. My city. My people: the lost, the annoyed, the angry, the oblivious. We’re all going somewhere and everyone else is in the way.

I weave, I thread my way through to get underground: entranced sightseers, daring teenagers, nurses off double shifts, exquisitely tailored bros. All in my way. They stand between my city and our home.

Because the city belongs only to me, it is mine. The city is a proud, lonely place. it’s for cutting teeth and harsh wind tunnels and sweaty piles of garbage. It’s for drunken wild moon nights and sober blistering days in the park. It is not for friends or for lovers. It is not for families. It is for your soul only. It is for your very own sense of brutality and kindness.

But, our home, our home belongs to all of us. It’s where I can breathe and be held. Where I can find rest. It’s where I can be touched with warmth, by his mischievous smile when he tells a lie, her pout when I refuse to play the guitar with her, and of course you: where there is no me, there is only us and ours.

And between my city and our home they all crowd in my way: miserable waiting on the corner, miserable crossing the street, miserable in the stairways, the tunnels, miserable on the train, miserable between seats. Misery sitting next to me.

I wish I could tell them, lean over and whisper into their ear, I know, I know why you are the way you are: my city doesn’t love you and you don’t have a home.

My love,

I cannot. I cannot you. I cannot believe you exist. I wake up every morning and you’re gone and I say to myself, that’s right, this was all a sham, a fever dream. I don’t recognize this place without you. I don’t recognize this life. You’ve become so ingrained in it any deviation from it is unreal, a nightmare.

I cannot. I cannot you. I cannot believe you are here with me, years after years and it works, you make it work, no, that’s not right. You it easy. You make it effortless. And I know there is toil. And I know there is exhaustion. I know not every day is a basket of fruit or flowers or chocolates. But for you, you make it wonderful. You make it joyful. All the little things, all the gestures, all the faces, the nuances, the gait, the walk, the stumble, the sudden change in pitch, the tears of your laughter. I cannot imagine it. What stone were you cut from?

I cannot. I cannot

when i was young, i longed for the night, a desperate desire to be free and roam the streets, to walk through the shadows, a ghost fleeting through headlights

now i am older and i dread the night, i long for the day, to be embraced by the heartless sun, to feel its grace, its heat, to be seen before i disappear