Smoke & Mirrors Read online

  They say time heals all wounds.

  I say, whoever said that doesn’t have a fucking clue about how I felt about you.

  Still feel about you.

  Norwegian Wood

  How I loved those summer evenings counting the stars while you read Norwegian Wood aloud to me—the sentences punctuated with warm kisses and sips of vodka.

  She Ran

  She ran,

  a trail of stardust in her wake,

  past a rising moon

  and fallen sun,

  across a sky

  of billowing black,

  running forward

  but returning back,

  to the place

  where dreams began,

  on pillows pink—

  the velvet crushed,

  an opium pipe

  in fingers held,

  two lovers kiss

  with smoky lips,

  a trace of lemon

  and honey spilt,

  her sleepy eyes

  a patchwork quilt,

  all magic sewn

  with golden needle,

  upon an arm

  with purple thread,

  a pencil writes

  another sentence,

  a circle drawn

  where it began,

  another dream,

  a new beginning,

  across a sea

  of poppies red—

  she runs.

  One More Touch

  I love how your hips rise, reaching the point of no return, fingers gripping the sheets—my hand between your legs.

  In Your Arms

  Billowing clouds painted lilac,

  splashes of pale pink

  across a dawning sky,

  your smile illuminated

  by glowing shafts

  of morning sunlight,

  the sound of crashing waves

  on a beach below,

  another day

  in your arms—

  begun.

  Chance Meeting

  I still remember how we first met.

  A late-night conversation on a plane, nervous words exchanged between the turbulence, your hand reaching out for mine when the shaking got worse.

  Two strangers seeking solace from the storm.

  A chance meeting, totally random, the odds firmly fixed against us, yet somehow love found a way to beat them.

  By the time we had landed, phone numbers were exchanged, and a promise to do lunch sometime was made with the un-clicking of a seat belt.

  —

  How quickly the years have passed.

  The lemon tree we planted, the one you bought us as a housewarming gift, all grown up and bearing fruit.

  Speckles of dying paint peeling on the cobwebbed veranda.

  Two cats and a canary sleeping peacefully underground.

  A shoebox kept under the stairs, filled with Valentine’s Day cards and fading photographs.

  Another bottle of wine empty.

  —

  Tonight we made love.

  Rain lashing the bedroom windows, trees swaying, their creaking branches arm wrestling with a howling wind.

  Flashes of lightning illuminating your face in the dark.

  Reminding me of the young girl I fell in love with on some faraway plane.

  How your hand reached out for mine.

  And how love came and took hold of our hearts.

  Never to let go again.

  Poetry

  The head can guide the hand that wields the pen but poetry can only be written by the heart.

  The Hanging Tree

  There was no warning.

  No note.

  Nothing.

  Yesterday we were just two old friends catching up, sitting cross-legged on a picnic blanket under a walnut tree. Sharing a bottle of Jack Daniels, reliving past memories in a beautiful garden on a balmy summer’s afternoon.

  “Do you remember the first time we kissed in high school?”

  If only you knew how many times I’ve cried today, answering that very question, over and over again inside my head.

  You seemed so happy.

  So full of life.

  Your wonderful blue eyes squinting in the orange haze of a setting sun.

  I can still feel the warmth of your hand holding mine.

  If only I had never let go.

  The Love We Share

  The love we share

  with open hearts,

  overflowing—

  like a river

  bursting its banks.

  And when we fuck

  how beautiful

  the night—

  a firework show

  on the 4th of July.

  A Dangerous Sea

  Lust is a dangerous sea—

  the rocks concealed,

  a lighthouse dark,

  our hearts shipwrecked—

  by a crashing wave

  of complicity.

  Her Voice

  Whenever you spoke, your voice was like music. A symphony composed by the very lips I longed to kiss.

  The Hunger

  You gave me that look—eyes wild, pupils dilated. Sitting on the edge of the kitchen bench. Your orange dress hitched up, a busy hand between your legs.

  “Fuck me.”

  The intensity of your words piercing a cloud of thin smoke coming from the oven.

  A lasagna burning.

  Forgotten.

  Letting Go

  A single raindrop

  clinging to a withered leaf,

  the last sip of vodka

  slowly slipping down

  a tilted glass,

  a cigarette dying

  by a riverbank,

  the last strand

  of winter hair

  turning gray,

  ink drying

  on a page,

  all memory

  of you,

  quietly fading

  away.

  I Dreamt of You

  You opened my heart

  while I lay sleeping,

  fingers turning

  a broken lock,

  the combination

  I was keeping,

  you remembered

  while I forgot.

  A second chance

  another meeting,

  a chasm breached

  with spoken words,

  forgiveness found

  not mine for keeping,

  in waking dream

  all hope is lost.

  How Can I Move On?

  How can I move on?

  When every single muscle

  inside this broken body

  refuses to wake,

  paralyzed by grief

  and desperation.

  My trembling hands

  unable to grasp,

  the fragile pieces

  of love’s jigsaw puzzle,

  scattered by a wind

  which changed

  without warning,

  a new direction

  decided by you,

  on a careless whim

  with no explanation.

  Here, take my heart

  with hammer held,

  and finish the job

  your words so

  poorly started,

  leave me empty

  no trace of dust,

  erase all memory

  and delete the past,

  squeeze the last

&nbs
p; drop from my

  crying eyes,

  for until you do

  how can I move on?

  Cold Comfort

  You became invisible,

  a ghost haunting

  the ruins of a heart

  left broken,

  where love

  once burned,

  so quickly taken,

  like a bucket

  of water

  thrown on a fire,

  all trace

  of warmth—

  forsaken.

  Rena

  It was her eyes

  that sang the songs—

  with a voice

  that reminded me

  of rainy nights

  and opium.

  Like a runaway kite

  lost to the wind,

  summer storms

  and circus swings.

  And when she sings—

  a spell is cast,

  her rose petal lips

  breaking hearts.

  Nia

  Twenty candles

  burning bright.

  A love composed

  its rhythm kept—

  by beating heart

  and bass guitar.

  A violet held

  in summer’s hand.

  My birthday wish,

  your happiness.

  Perspective

  The further we run away from our heart, the quicker we lose sight of who we really are.

  Death

  It wasn’t death that frightened me.

  What really terrified me was not knowing when I would hold you in my arms again.

  —

  “We’re soul mates,” she whispered. “A love like ours can never be lost. Not now, not ever. When you take your last breath, it will just be a momentary pause in time, before our lips find each other once more.”

  Empty Space

  I woke up,

  not with the gentle

  stirring of sheets

  against my skin,

  or your alarm—

  Amy Winehouse

  singing “Rehab”

  on an iPhone,

  but to an empty space—

  the one you

  left behind.

  The Love You Give

  It is your heart that beats within my body. The love you give—the blood that runs through my veins.

  A Winter’s Day

  Her touch felt like a summer’s day in the middle of winter.

  Warm against my chilly skin, fingers stroking my neck as we sat at our favorite spot in the park, on an old moss-covered wooden bench that overlooked the duck pond and had a view of a church spire in the distance.

  “What do you think is the secret to staying in love?” Lucy asked.

  “Never giving up on each other,” I replied, putting my arm around her shoulders.

  She was wearing the orange puffer jacket I had bought her. Last year’s birthday present that came with an airplane ticket hidden in the pocket. A surprise skiing trip to Aspen.

  Lucy sighed. “Not always easy to do.”

  I smiled and thought about her words. She was right. I remembered all the times I had fought for love in the past, trying to save a relationship, only to lose the battle in the end.

  “No, it’s not easy to do. Sometimes hanging onto love is like rubbing two wet sticks together to make a fire with tired hands.”

  Lucy kissed me on the cheek and slid her hands under my coat, reaching down inside my jeans.

  “Well, these hands are far from tired,” she whispered.

  —

  “Do you still love me?”

  “More than all the words I have ever written. More than all the words I will ever write.”

  A Beautiful Conundrum

  She was a mysterious girl, impossible to predict—a beautiful conundrum that kept me awake on stormy nights.

  Far Away

  You have gone,

  somewhere far away

  beyond the reach

  of these hands,

  wishing for yours—

  the touch of skin

  against skin

  in a warm shower,

  a memory reset

  by the cycle

  of a smiling sun

  and crying moon,

  my lips quietly

  counting down

  the days,

  until your eyes

  hold mine again,

  and our love

  is the only thing

  we can see.

  Roller Coasters

  All that we seek

  only confusion found,

  in vodka shots

  and empty pill bottles,

  writing love letters

  never sent,

  riding roller coasters

  on rusty rails—

  our lives spent,

  living the lie

  but holding

  onto the dream,

  the sweet scent

  of youth

  corrupted—

  by the reality

  of tomorrow.

  Before

  In the dying darkness—

  before the dawn wakes

  from its slumber,

  and a tired moon

  falls gently

  back to sleep,

  before the first note

  by magpie sung,

  beneath the covers

  of a restless bed—

  the softest of moans

  breaking the silence,

  a sinking star

  in a sea of black,

  before a summer sun

  rises in the East,

  from open lips

  comes the scream

  of sweet release.

  Run Away

  All I ever wanted, the only wish I ever had, was to run away with you and never stop running.

  Just Friends

  It was her tightly held independence that stirred my heart the most.

  How she lived life on her terms.

  A runaway girl with stormy gray eyes staring out to the shimmering horizon.

  Always the driver and never the passenger.

  Slender hands gripping the leather-bound steering wheel of a purring silver convertible.

  The midday sun beating down on a lonely desert road to nowhere.

  A trace of perfume trailing in the wind from a neck I longed to caress. Her sideways glance in my direction, flashing me a rare smile with red lipsticked lips.

  “Brand New Moves” by Hey Violet playing on the radio.

  A lock of blond hair quickly swept away from her face.

  Always in control.

  Like the words she whispered to me last night in the tiny motel room.

  “We fuck but we never kiss.”

  A line in the sand drawn with her finger across my bare chest.

  One we never crossed.

  Just friends.

  Second Best

  The tragedy

  of the dispossessed,

  those lonely souls

  with love—

  obsessed,

  no tears

  can put a heart

  to rest,

  when chasing

  a dream—

  and settling

  for second best.

  All the Things

  Just the very sound of your voice can bring me to my knees and make me think of all the things I’d love to do but dare not say.

  S
andcastles

  We built our sandcastles with hands entwined. The waves breaking between kisses melting upon lips sticky and sweet. The memory of pink cotton candy and strawberry ice cream mixed with a single sigh and a whispered “I love you.”

  A heart traced with a wet stick you found under the pier, our names left behind for the sea to steal with white frothy fingers.

  I can still hear you singing.

  A spiral shell pressed to my ear.

  Your voice laced with salty wind and sailing ships.

  A siren calling me.

  My mind drifting back to our last summer.

  —

  I caught a glimpse of you, the fluttering of a floral dress and a billowing lock of red hair, fading into a crowd of coffee-drinking strangers.

  Taking a seat somewhere at the back of the busy café.

  A year had passed since we last spoke but time had done nothing to still my beating heart. A deep pang of uncertainty rising from the pit of my stomach.

  I buried my head back into my newspaper, trying to hide and not be seen, while my mind desperately tried to make sense of the conflicting emotions racing through it.

  “Leave now, slip away unnoticed, escape while you still can … talk to her.”

  The sweet scent of patchouli made the decision for me.

  “Hi there, mind if I join you?”

  I peered up from the pages, my eyes meeting the same gorgeous smile that haunted my memory during sleepless nights.

  Daisy stood in front of me, her delicate hands pressed down on the edge of the table.

  “Of course, please, sit down. How are you?”

  My startled words betrayed the awkwardness I felt, a heady mixture of exhilaration and panic pulsing through my body.

  “Oh, I’m fine,” she replied, pulling out a chair and sitting down next to me. “A little jet-lagged, but nothing a shot of strong coffee and a glass of Pernod can’t fix. I wasn’t sure if it was you, but then I noticed the watch.”