When he tells me he can't get me a valentine till later,
its so bittersweet.
I love him for telling me so i'm not put down,
and I love how he thinks for me.
But it reminds me of every time i've gotten my birthday forgotten,
any holiday surrounding me,
forgotten,
and those words,
"i'll get you something later, i promise."
coming out of a desperate mans mouth.
It's not that i crave a gift
i really don't, i really don't care.
but how am i supposed to have trust in something that has been broken so many times?
how am i supposed to have trust when i've been pushed aside as a later thought?

Two weeks ago I met the most perfect boy.
I decided to shoot my shot,
and I made my ball in.
Im not ready to truly say I love him,
but I already know I do.
I know because his cologne lingers in my hair,
I know because I can ask him anything without feeling ashamed.
I know because I don't even feel jealous.
From the day that I saw him,
I knew we had a connection.
From the day that I saw him,
I knew something had begun.

there was a boy
who was nothing but ink
he would speak
and words would

f
            a
l
            l

out from his mouth
words that nobody wanted to hear
because he said too much
people don't want to know him
anymore

A sea like no other sea.

Theater of the Odyssey,

and of Cleopatra and Anthony.

The sea  

of war and of peace.

Cradle of known civilizations,

and jealous keeper of secrets

of civilizations yet unknown.



To me, it is simply

the sea

where I took my first swim,

panicked and sunk like a stone,

pulled down by the wrath of Poseidon,  

that eternally angry god of the Greeks,

who, it was said, lived a thousand fathoms below.

But a strong hand quickly snatched me, lifted me up,

and at the surface I saw a reassuring face smiling at me.

My father was standing in chest deep water,  

and I heard him saying,

“son, you got to keep your legs and arms moving.”



To me, it is simply

the sea  

where I fell in love with the Mediterranean blue,

where I lingered long summer hours at the shore

lazily dreaming,

about people and lands  

beyond the faraway infinite line,

that elusive border  

separating two magical shades of the azure.

Awkward and lanky,

not a boy and not yet a man.

Youth, litheness; potential

and yet, still teachable.

there's a boy in my class who's sick
and his hair has already fallen out in chunks
and his eyebrows are thinning
and his skin has turned to flaking paper.

there's a boy in my class who's sick
and he doesn't come to school as often anymore
and though he used to be gifted, his grades have dropped
and his eyes are just two empty pools of water.

there's a boy in my class who's sick
and i wish i knew him more to offer comfort or aid
and decipher if that smile on his lips is fake or not
and tell him I care. because i do.

there's a boy in my class who's sick
and my cheeks used to flush whenever i saw him
and i used to write poems about his blonde locks
but i never confessed because it doesn't even matter anymore.

there's a boy in my class who's sick
and i worry that one day
i'll never see him again.