You’re my first breath in the morning. Eyes still closed, inhale. Skin-excite. Lung-scorch. Possible poison. Possible free-fall. With you as the air crumbling my skeleton. I am aching between each rib as they crack under the pressure of you as gravity. My days pass as storm clouds. Panic-rush across my hairline fractured sky. And I still weigh more than the room around me as I plummet. And I’d say you’re my last breath at night, but let’s be honest. That would require letting go, and I’ll never breathe you out.

in light of love's soft failure

i endeavor to be my own savior.

to thither and wither this heart -

to let distance decay what i could not.

kill the sorrow and love lingering

set fire to the emotional kindling

let the flames cleanse my soul

so that one day, i might just let go.

Sparkles the way her eyes sparkle when she laughs make me smile.

The way he runs his fingers through his hair makes my cheeks burn.

Loving someone and having them not love you back can feel like your pouring you love down an open drain. It’s going somewhere but it isn’t going to come back around. It leaves you hollow but you keep giving hoping for the eventually...

Pretty white, sweetly scented, suspended bells on the Lily of the Valley along the park path dripped their poison deceptively as sixteen year old Kevin spoke the words I was waiting to hear, "Do you think your parents will let you go to the junior prom with me?"

"Ashes, ashes, they all fall down!" The nearby cackling happy toddlers hadn't heard him, but I did and yelled above them a premature hopeful answer, spilling my "YES" as deep and as wide as the adjacent Allegheny River. Two long months of waiting would ensue, a busy two months for both of us, littered with teenage exploits; sports practices, competitions, homework and mind numbing chores. At fourteen, my mother said, "You are too young to date," but she made an exception and said I could go to the prom with Kevin because it was chaperoned and "Anyway," she shook the salt shaker longer than she should staring me down, "I like his parents." Leading up to my dream night there were tantalizing phone calls, toothsome hall peeks and subsequent slinky occasional walks in the park together, where I clutched at his every word as if he were Shakespere, intoxicated by my own personal interpretation of his seductive soliloquy.

My dress was not hard to find, pink, light pink, almost white, with a matching chiffon shawl that caressed the skin on my back as a temporary prop. Before the long mirror in the dressing room, anticipating his touch, I imagined slipping the shawl off and draping it carefully onto the back of my seat, replaced by his strong caressing arm followed by a tender benign kiss from his lips to my bare shoulder. He would then ask, "Would you like to dance?" Nice and slow, slower than the soft spring breeze, we would dance the night away stealing soft kisses and glances from the others, all of them only wishing they could be us. Love had bitten me so hard, everything I once knew slipped behind the couch and I didn't care to look for my family or my friends; even my favorite books laid dry in collected dust, as I habitually fantasized over my lionized paramour.

When the coveted night arrived he entered my family hallway as royalty, my dashing prince, and I stepped forward like a virgin bride ready to commit in pink. He did say, "You look nice," but seemed to look beyond me as he said so. I assumed he was embarrassed in front of my parents, and with the help of my mother, he successfully pinned the coordinated pink carnation corsage upon my heaving chest, close to my left breast atop my marshmallow heart. It was on the ride over to the prom with him in the back seat of my father's Cadillac that I first noticed it seemed I had lost my place in the book I was writing. Boldly, I reached for his arm and he quickly raised it cupping his hand to his mouth simulating a cough, pulling his body as far away as he could without leaving the vehicle. "Perhaps he's nervous in front of Dad," I thought, while following his lead by staring off towards pedestrians and vegetation, anything other than each other.

After we arrived, he led me to our table, and there I sat, shawled, alone, in my seat, other than when I would get up to look for him, only to see what my eyes pleaded to deny. Patty Paulson. Pretty Patty Paulson, also 16, the girl every 11th grade guy wanted to be with and Kevin, talking, dancing and even slipping away outside, together, I saw them, and when the door closed behind them, a tsunami tore the door off its hinges and flung it across the room crushing me. Had she come alone? Unlikely. Perhaps her date became a bore to her too and she found her next shiny object. When it was time for the meal, Kevin finally came to our table and talked to me and the rest of the sitting students jovially, while my tongue wanted to ask, "How dare you," but couldn't, as if my tongue was a duck stuck in a row bound and tucked in for the night. Was I just his decoy used in the hunt? Dead ducks and cracked egg shells littered the floor.

He didn't sit next to me on the ride home. His friend's father drove us and he jumped into the front seat before he was invited to do so. He said goodnight to me without even turning his head and didn't have to say it was over between us before it began. The why was simple and it started with a "P." I couldn't say her name and couldn't get the vision of them slipping away out of the gymnasium door off of my mind. That scene would haunt me, an open grave on a Halloween night long into my adulthood.

My parents were waiting at the front door when I pushed by them as if they were unwanted stray dogs, "What's wrong," they both asked recognizing the obvious signs of turmoil. "Nothing!" I protested and they would never know, although they must have surmised and decided to let me work through the pain of unrequited love.

It was Elton John I became acquainted with in the days and weeks following the prom. Tumbleweed Connection. 1971. I crawled inside his mind, like a worm down its hole searching for safety, but the darkness Elton must have been feeling when he wrote his words infected me and I drowned with him, zombie-like, somewhere on top of my cold twin bed for too many excruciating minutes multiplying into hours, day after day, losing count and my way, so close and so far away from Elton, farther from Kevin, alone.

"Some leave you counting the stars in the night."

It's my favorite way to show it.

The petals slowly building up,

consuming my everything.

Chest tightens, breathing strains,

falling under, giving in.

Keeping what I would have said to you

locked up inside of me.

Holding the words within

until the thorns are all I see.

Filling my lungs with unseen notes

of unknown adoration.

Letting go of everything,

ignoring my internal starvation.

Keeping back, holding my hand

to cover my face,

my tears, the petals,

instead of taking your hand.

Choking out the skies,

the horizons of the future,

covering my eyes,

forgetting the way I should have known you.

I look into his eyes

bright, and full of light

And I can see our future

together.

But I look at his face

His strained smile

His tight lips

Just waiting to say the words that

Will tear me apart

And then I know

When I look into his face,

Full of regret, of pain

My feelings for him, and his for me

Are not the same

When it happens, you’re like a string of taffy. He leaves the classroom, and you want to run after him like a dog, hoping you can catch up before he reaches the stairs. He either doesn’t look at you, or his eyes drift over like you’re as interesting as a piece of lint. You crave that look, then you don’t. You’re better than his love, then you aren’t. You want him to wait, then you never want to see him again. Like taffy, you’re pulled two ways.

Your body turns to him. His face is a work of art, his words less so. You want those murky brown eyes to linger on you just a second more than they ever do. You want to capture him, make his breath hitch the same way yours does, but you don’t have that magic.

You wonder if it’s you. You’re not the prettiest. Lovely eyes, but that’s the only exceptional thing. You’re not slender or fit like him. Your personalities don’t seem to click, either. He’s the last to laugh at your jokes. He rarely looks when you speak. The more he refuses to notice you, the more you desire to impress him.

It’s a twisted game, and you always lose. You’re either mad at him, or head-over-heels for him. You try to give up, but he reignites your hope with that side glance. Maybe it wasn’t a passing one this time. Maybe he wants you. But still he leaves the classroom, quick on his feet.

You lie in bed thinking of him. You imagine him obsessing over you with the same fervor that you do with him. You imagine the two of you in a dark place, his lips kissing you fiercely. You imagine being perfect for him, and knowing that in reality--you’re not.

It stings. It’s a masochistic game you torment yourself with. The unattainability only makes you want him more, no matter how unhealthy everyone says it is.

You can’t help it. Getting drunk off the pain of your unrequited love is your greatest pleasure.

Your voice still echoes in my ears

somewhere around my heart

in the pit of my stomach

in my knees

pulsing on my neck

where the breath

of a kiss not given lingers.

Your voice still echoes in my ears

whispering softly

words you will never say

as your hands caress me,

your arms embrace me,

as softly, gently as the dream

in which they occur.

Your voice still echoes in my ears

with promises of love

that wasn’t and will not be

feeding a hunger

for the taste of lips that lie

with every breath

in the hollow echo of your silence.

You became my best friend, but I was only ever one of yours.

You would call unexpectedly, and I would always answer.

But I always asked first. And the one time I was desperate enough not to, your three

hour later reply left me broken. Tears, no air, and barely holding on.

You said so many conflicting things. What were lies, and what was real?

I only ever told the truth.

We both know you’re fine without me.

I was the only one in love.