Not Quite The First

When I first saw you,
You were little more to me
Than a boy in short pants with skinny, hairy legs.
You had eyes that told too much,
And you were just another “project” of sorts
My best-friend aimed to save.
We were young, and brazen, she and I, and thought all the broken
Were ours to fix.
Young and brazen.



When I first looked at you,
It was the summer of ’69.
No, I jest—you know my humour too well,
Us both ’94 babies who aimed things at twenty-one.
We were walking the cemented pillars, in our colonial best,
My best-friend, and I, and you’d just graduated from a project to be salvaged,
To a boy with beautiful eyes.
I laughed in perfect humour, so I wouldn’t have to roll my eyes,
But you walked by
With the ghost of your name still on our lips.
That day, I found out, she was right.
You did have beautiful eyes;
Butterscotch, and amber,
(And that famous whiskey-brown the romance novels talk of,
When the sun caught your eyes).
I turned away and poured that whiskey down the drain,
But the aftertaste of butterscotch,
Still burned my tongue.



When I first noticed you,
It was the year of ’09;
Standing on rough stairs in pants that hid your knees,
With your back to the door, and the folds of long pants,
Sat neatly round your ankles.
You weren’t quite her project anymore,
So I smiled a rare smile,
Acknowledged your fine eyes,
And tasted whiskey doused in butterscotch.



When I first loved you,
It must have still been the year of ’09.
With that door against your back, and fine eyes that asked too much,
I’d sipped too much whiskey
Off a glass pane I couldn’t even touch.
But I did know right then,
Before I relearned sober,
That for anything you couldn’t ask me,
And all the things you wouldn’t ask for
Because you’d learned that wanting was too much,
I’d pour myself another whiskey, and lace it with butterscotch
(The one flavour I learned to love)
Because I liked the sunshine in your eyes, and I’d be damned if I let you think
The only thing you would ever get if you asked for it,
Were rain clouds when it flooded.



When I first fractured, I’d barely turned nineteen,
But I knew then, what I know now,
That I’d fix me just right, so that we’d be all right,
Because ‘though you weren’t quite the first,
And neither was I,
You were still the only first,
Whose eyes did all the right asking,
And I’d be damned if I didn’t stay,
And say all that mine had promised.



K.N.O.W. Friday (morning), November 6, 2015. 03:15 hrs to 04:26 hours.

One Thousand, Eight Hundred, and Twenty Five Days…and then some.

Return often and take me,

Beloved sensation, return and take me–

When memory of the body awakens,

And old desire again runs through the blood;

When the lips and skin remember,

And the hands feel as if they touch again.

C.P. Cavafy

Return; 1709

It has been five years, perhaps more, since I first learned to love you. That is, over sixty months, two hundred and sixty weeks, and even more days since I discovered my capacity to love.

It has not been easy, it has not been sweet, nor neat, nor clean. Five years of carrying two. Two hundred and sixty weeks of refusing to choke, or crumble. All for you to destroy each year’s work, each month’s toil, each week’s sweat, each day’s trudge, each night’s un-poured tears with fears, jests, and indifference? Silly games, and adolescent angst?

By now, I should be angry. I should be hurt, or upset, or weary, but I have known weariness, and worn hurt, and been the face of anger for too long to feel those now. In their place is a pleasant apathy. One that I will perhaps never tell you of, because a part of me does still care about the things that weigh you down at nights. But these are the things that change a person. They craft a glass wall that would bring pleasure to even the most blinded glassblower’s eyes. A hazy, translucent wall, dyed crimson at its centre, swirling a kaleidoscope of blues, and blacks farther out beyond that crimson, until there is nothing but the glistening sparkle of crystal with hints of yellow forming a silver-lining along this wall’s uneven, but smooth surface.

You are not to blame. Well, not entirely. There is me. There is the 17 year old boy who taught a five year old things she should not know. A mother whose best skill was not asking questions she did not want the answers to. Friends who did not have the capacity to return what they could not understand. And perhaps, even others.

You see, it is not that I am angry, or hateful. Not even that I am petty, and strangely enough, not that I do not understand why you are, the way you are, or that I do not love you. I simply, just no longer, give, a f*ck.

Sigh. Such a waste of a pretty quote.

Do not return to me.


There are limits.

*To be read with a pinch of salt, and probably a few other seasonings. :)

For those Moments

In which there are no words,

When all has been swallowed by the empty

laughter that rings against vastness,


But not entirely failing,

To fill the unpronounceable thing

You refuse to give a name,

Saving yourself from the grim deed of

Enunciating a clear epitaph,

I am sorry–as I am sure many before me

are, and many after me will be:

In the knowledge that it is easier to lift, and

hold the mass of weightless laughter,

Than to kneel with your hands, and head in

A sort of obeisance to nameless things,

While trying to hold weighted clear pearls,

Slipping through your fingers, in a flood

Of wet beads around your knees.


K.N.O.W. Thursday, August 20, 2015. 15:28 hrs