SCENE 1
the writer,
vonnegut,
says to write for
an audience of one.
so though many will read this,
it is only for your
green eyes.
i remember when we first met,
you said you liked my dog,
and said you liked his name.
if i saved his life ten times over,
i couldn’t pay him back.
i looked at pictures,
approximations of
you.
i read your words,
only a summary of your
soul.
but still,
even then,
you grabbed me.
i asked of your country,
and found it was
the place
my heart has always been.
at least a quarter of it,
anyway.
a place i have roots,
a place that calls to me.
a place where they speak,
a language from my youth.
i have been indifferent
to so many others.
if we clicked,
we clicked.
but if not,
we’d be like objects in space,
speeding by,
never to cross paths
again.
nothing lost
and nothing gained.
but on that night,
i knew,
i must meet you.
you were a dream,
were you a reality?
i put on my best words.
though i flattered you,
it was all
true.
you may not have known
how i was
alone.
but i assure you,
the feeling was mutual.
though it was by
choice.
somehow,
our conversation stretched into
the next day.
i thought of your voice.
i knew it must be
beautiful.
i wondered if i would hear it.
i told el artista
how badly
i wanted to woo you.
i was in a room of people
when you said you’d call.
i left the room,
sat on stairs,
and looked at empty cars.
you never called.
maybe we were on different orbits,
never to cross paths
again.
something lost
and nothing gained.
SCENE 2
but the next day,
you asked what i should have.
why should we call,
when we could meet?
of course,
to meet,
we had to call.
i remember when i first heard your
voice,
the reality
was better than
the dream.
funny.
we both took classes
in that green building.
how many times
had we passed by,
walking a hallway,
driving a road.
only to meet
in pictures and words.
you asked if i was nervous.
i’m a terrible liar.
hell yes,
i was nervous.
stargazing
too ambitious.
we’d meet
at that park downtown.
you’d bring a blanket for sitting,
and i’d grab the drinks for drinking,
and the teddy for petting.
teddy roosevelt.
not to be trusted.
a pup in a pit’s body.
but hungry and curious.
maybe not unlike me
or you.
bringing him was
a risk.
but if you wanted me to bring him along,
i sure as hell was bringing him along.
i left early,
got lost,
couldn’t find the wine,
and when i texted i was close,
realized you hadn’t left.
got lost
downtown,
$20 to park
(worth it),
got nervous and left the beer.
walked to the park
where a drunk couple fawned over ted.
couldn’t find you,
heard annoyance in that
pretty voice.
wondered if my
chance
was slipping
away.
another couple
thought ted a killer.
and i was glad to get around
the corner.
looked around.
didn’t see you.
then i heard my name
in a familiar
note.
there you were
standing under
the light.
that moment
is not like part of a dream
that you forget when you wake.
i can’t forget
because
the reality
was better than
the dream.
i put my arms around you for
the first time.
we sat and talked.
teddy was restless,
almost lost my chair.
surely that is all part of
the charm?
we moved to the grass.
while children ran around us,
we sized each other
up.
we laughed,
we advanced,
and then retreated.
we rinsed
and repeated.
who are you?
who am i?
teddy barked
and bolted.
my head,
your knee.
it only hurt
my pride.
you told me of that city
where the sun sets at three.
i knew this because
that city
had been my escape.
el artista knows how many times
i’d decided
i’d had enough
and would make that escape.
but if i’d run,
we were on different orbits,
never to cross paths
at all.
something lost
and something gained.
we said goodbye.
i couldn’t read you.
did you really want to meet again?
at home
i drank all the beer
i’d been too afraid to bring.
all but the one that broke,
anyway.
i ranted
and raved.
why get your hopes up?
my friends listened
and i listened to them.
then you responded,
and i realized,
that was an overreaction.
SCENE 3
the next day
you became
my bond girl.
but you were never mine.
how could you be,
when following
your own compass
is what i loved about you?
the next time we met,
we sat under
the stars.
you again brought the blanket,
and i actually brought the wine,
but no ted.
we broke curfew.
sorry richardson,
i’ll gladly pay a fine.
it took me awhile to realize,
you cared less about the stars.
i spilled my wine,
and we laughed,
and talked.
you wanted to make
a mark,
i could only agree,
you always had
beautiful words.
we sat quietly
under the stars.
SCENE 4
there was late night sushi
and converstations about
a kiss.
there was mediterranean
and a kiss.
i laid beside you,
and looked into those
green eyes.
i lost track of time
and thought.
if eyes are
windows to the soul.
then yours
glimmers.
when you left,
i knew,
the reality
was better than
the dream.
SCENE 5
the fire in your eyes,
had lept to my own.
i had to
say,
do,
act,
live,
be.
i tried to put you into words.
none seemed to fit.
not because they didn’t apply,
but because,
just as light is not only
blue
or red
or yellow
but a mixture of all,
no single word
could give
your shape
and i couldn’t find
a prism.
you became
my muse.
but you were never mine.
how could you be,
when following
your own compass
is what i loved about you?
there were
cuba libres
and
coldplay.
laughter.
in the morning,
colombian coffee
in bed.
magic.
seven years in the dark
bad been
forgiven.
the reality
was better than
the dream.
i tried words again.
better now.
a poem
hidden in
a book.
pho,
talking about
eating ants,
coloraduh,
and the city
where the sun sets
at three.
what had been
an escape
was now
a hope.
picky about the milk,
only almond
would do.
captain crunch,
jack’s mannequin.
the morning.
you left
and i didn’t know
so much time
would separate our
eyes.
SCENE 6
i couldn’t hurt you
and then i did.
or did i only hurt
myself?
fears from a past
returned.
my words broke.
we tried again.
and again
i slipped.
lost my
footing.
came
tumbling
down.
you called.
i knew
shame.
i’d let you
down.
destroyed
an idea
six weeks in the making.
i heard
every word.
we said
goodbyes?
was the reality
better than
the dream?
maybe we were on different orbits,
never to cross paths
again.
everything lost
and nothing gained.
SCENE 7
at the bottom,
i found
the map
and headed towards
the signal fire,
that was
you.
something to
light
my path
even if
there was nothing at
the end.
i knew of
the variables
i could not
control.
time,
distance,
waning desire,
someone new.
i knew of
odds and probabilities.
not in my favor?
they were never
in favor.
people
and places
and things
and you
should not have happened.
but they did.
and i’d walk
a million miles
for the smallest chance
of seeing
you.
bought a bike,
thirty miles
and crashes
and black eyes
are easier
with you
in mind.
biking
a million miles
is easier than
walking
anyway.
cooked a little.
pasta.
unsure if
the choice of menu
was intentional.
dissertations
and dreams.
progress.
pieces of unsolved
puzzles
falling into
place.
school for teddy.
he’s not phd material
but he stays very well.
he stays well.
sometimes he stays.
appointments
and sessions.
waiting rooms full of
broken people.
maybe hemingway was right:
we are all broken,
that’s how the light gets in.
the ghost of
green hall
stopped haunting.
as fears slipped away,
they were like objects in space,
speeding by,
never to cross paths
again.
nothing lost
and something gained.
and then,
nothing lost
and everything gained.
even as things
left and filled
my life.
i missed
you.
and the truth is
i wondered if
we were objects in space,
speeding by,
never to cross paths
again.
something lost
and everything gained.
SCENE 8
three weeks.
i told myself:
i gotta see about
a girl.
prepared for
the funeral.
was shocked you replied.
too late for
the fair.
someone will find
a ticket in a book
in 2051.
something had
changed.
no longer
texts at night
when you could not
sleep.
in my phone
you became
z.
easier
to not see you
every time i dialed.
rainy night.
i wanted you to know
who i was.
rainy day.
a voicemail.
texting.
incessant.
what about a hockey game?
you ever have
a million words to say
and only
a text to say it?
restless thoughts.
a walk.
pouring rain.
a phone call.
z.
that voice.
like a high.
you forget
the pleasure
feel it again
and remember
why you want
more.
talked about
you
then me,
your country.
my fear:
someone new,
not my business.
but did we have a
connection?
we did.
tv shows.
friends.
we laughed.
hour and a half.
how about the hockey game?
next week too ambitious.
but with
good night,
hope.
another phone call.
talked about
costumes,
the moon and stars.
spun a story.
i know we joked,
but a crash
would be bad for both of us.
that book would be a best-seller,
though.
halloween.
objects in space
flew by.
talked with someone new
or two.
fizzled out.
my standards are too high
now.
roses.
petals or thorns.
i wonder.
you became my
green eyes.
but you were never mine.
how could you be,
when following
your own compass
is what i loved about you?
actually,
you were
ojos verdes,
the day we first met.
because
like the song
how could anyone deny you?
SCENE 9
29 years.
what have i learned?
perhaps
life is a current.
fight against it
and it will knock you
down.
stay down
and you will
drown.
but swim with it
and it will
carry you along.
maybe jobs was right:
you can poke life.
it’s not abstract or dead,
but something that responds
to the touch.
fear
never did
anyone
any good.
hiding in your room
playing it safe
doesn’t keep life,
it kills.
because
if we haven’t hurt,
we haven’t lived.
like ted,
bark
worse than
its bite.
fields:
possibility
cannot exist
without uncertainty.
like hope
and disappointment
they are two sides
of the same coin.
if things were always right
life would not be vivid
blue
and red
and yellow.
but colorless,
a dull grey.
i’m unsure
if things happen for
a reason.
or if reasons
are the stories we make
to find
meaning.
maybe
the point of it all
is that it doesn’t
matter.
we are all
in the same current
called life.
the same boat.
are we so very different?
of course,
we are different.
and that’s
the rub.
we are not all
a dull grey.
some are blue
or red
or yellow.
some green.
the different
shades
and colors.
give us
shape
and beauty
and depth.
and from this comes
the universal command:
do you,
man.
do you,
i’ll do me.
we must
love ourselves
because
without that
we cannot
love others.
and surely,
we must
love
because
love is
the currency.
love is
the current
called life.
SCENE 10
my record player.
records are played in their
entirety.
because
each album is
a story.
the way
the artist
intended.
stories like
our lives.
we each get
one story
to tell.
we are each handed
an empty book
with pages
to fill.
you have been part of
my story.
and i realize
i know so little
about
yours.
you are
finely bound.
i could look at
your cover
all day.
beautiful.
i’ve yet to find another
so perfectly drawn.
but truly it is
your words
your pages
that fascinate me.
i read
a sentence here
and there.
snuck
a paragraph
or two.
i marveled.
i wanted more.
but the book
kept moving.
i never finished it.
and really,
unfinished stories
are the ones that
call to you.
truth be told,
i’ve read too many
stories,
listened to too much
music,
seen too many
movies.
too much
hey jude
not enough
hey you.
i used to wonder
whether it was all
fiction.
the dreams
they sold
were not
reality.
but now
i know
every great
book,
song,
and movie
are real
yet
poorly made
copies
of something
better.
too,
i know
that you can remove
the mis from every
mistake.
sometimes the right
scene
needs more than one
take.
and
while we’re on the
topic,
i have to
ask:
it wasn’t 500 days
but are you
summer
or autumn?
SCENE 11
more than one
has said
writing
is like
making
love.
since i have not
seen you
in so long,
please accept
every
word
as the
kisses
and caresses
they are.
i miss
touching your
lips,
feeling your
hair,
rubbing your
shoulders,
grabbing your
hands,
kissing your
skin.
i miss
hearing your
laugh,
your voice,
your soul.
and if
you couldn’t tell,
i miss
looking into your
green eyes.
SCENE 12
telling you
this,
i know
there are
variables
i cannot
control.
you have your own
life,
hopes,
needs,
wants,
and dreams.
you probably even have
a flaw
or two.
i’m just
a guy
you first met
in pictures and words.
still.
i’m a little curious.
aren’t you?
maybe
we should
write together
a little bit more.
even if only
a chapter
or two.
each one
better than
the last.
you don’t have to use
a blue
pen.
don’t you have
a different color,
anyway?
regardless,
keep filling
your pages
with
the beautiful words
i know
you will.
make
the dream
the reality.
too,
i know
what i want,
but in a world with
the bataclan,
we must appreciate
whatever we get.
forgive me,
i must
try.
the beauty
is all in
the try
and not in
the things we call
success
and failure.
even when we
slip
something will catch us in
the end.
maybe
we are on different orbits,
never to cross paths
again.
everything lost
and something gained.
or maybe,
we are on orbits,
heading to cross paths
again.
everything lost
and everything gained.
at least
know
you’ve changed
one object’s
trajectory.
SCENE 13
today.
early morning.
turning in
homework.
lost in
odds and probabilities.
blue pen.
green building.
counting
dots in squares.
i am
five.
the math is
wrong.
it should be
one and not two.
how…?
it doesn’t
matter.
under the
door.
thoughts.
does
green eyes
have class?
knees wobble.
text her.
don’t be
afraid.
don’t have
regrets.
try.
no.
don’t be
afraid.
try
a new thing.
let go.
funny.
the closest
in months.
and maybe
the closest
i’ll ever be.
will you let me see
those
green eyes?
SCEN…