I flew out on a Monday,
looked down and saw nothing
but an ascent.
Maybe, heaven
was below us,
and we just got it mixed up.
The whole time
I wondered what the love of my life is doing
and if she knows each poem is me trying.
All I want to do
is ask her why,
but I don't have the courage.
New York City was down
there somewhere,
with her in it.
I had to leave it
and her behind, again,
for now, forever, whatever.
I am so confused,
and I don't know what to do;
all I know is that I miss making her laugh.
Landing back in the middle,
I grabbed my duffel
and forgot until I passed a bookstore.
The Secret History
by Donna Tart
was window shopping me.
That past weekend,
I kept scanning the crowd
looking for her in a halter top.
I thought I saw her once
but it was just a pretty transgender woman,
and my eyesight is old.
I can't wait to sleep tonight,
because dreams are the only time
I get to see her.
I wish I could read her poems,
because they were always damn good,
and my only real connection.
She will read this
and it will boost her ego,
which is fine.
I sure hope she is brave today,
because I am not,
and I have 9 stanzas to prove it.