Until the Pen Runs Dry

       A man (or, perhaps, the man ) walked up to the dark brown door of the soon-to-be-again bar. The FOR SALE sign still sat in the inside of the corner of the tall, curtain-less window. Before opening the door, the man looked at the sign and contrasted the red color of the sign with his light blue wool suit. It was definitely daring for the man to wear a wool suit in the summer, as a seersucker would have been much more appropriate for such a humid, cloudless day.        Upon looking back at the door, before he could turn the knob, it twisted on its own in his hand, opened out toward him, and caused him to take a step back, his left Florsheim shoe almost, almost getting scuffed.        “John, you’re here,” said the man who opened the door. His hazel eyes shone in the summer light. “I saw you through the window. Did you see me?”        “Albert. I’m here,” replied John, now feeling the heat ins...

It is interesting that they are so many cliches in life, and in so many languages, and people in every country say these cliches without reservations, yet not many people take them to heart. I do not think cliches are called cliches because they’re old, worn out expressions that need to be buried; I think, as it is said in the show Californication , cliches are called cliches because they are true - which is probably stolen from someone else. But even if that expression about cliches has itself become a cliche, it is still true: cliches offer entry-level understanding about complex and convoluted subjects and conundrums.  One such example, the beaten-to-beyond death cliche of “there are plenty of fish in the sea” is a beautiful example of introducing a newly heartbroken teenager into the understanding that there will be others for him or her to love (and, probably, become heartbroken over as well). However, people have a knack of taking a cliche, which I am sure wa...

She walks into the bathroom and turns on the water for the bathtub. She always has an issue with getting the temperature just right for a bath, but never a shower, so you, lying on your side on the bed listening to the glass door of the tub slide, know that she will not be as happy with the temperature of the water as she would like when she finally sinks into it. "Bubble bath?" you call into the bathroom. The door is slightly ajar, and the light is sloping into the dark bedroom. "Bubble bath!" she calls back. Her voice sounds muffled, and you think she may be taking off her shirt in this moment.  You have always been amused by the way her hair streams free from her t-shirt hole whenever she takes her t-shirt off. Naturally, her dresses, which simply drop from her curves and onto the floor, do not have this effect, but you cannot complain about dresses coming off, like a cover coming off and revealing a gift from a game show. And you know she is the best...

If dreams, As they say, Are meaningless, Why do I Feel so much weight When I see your face In my sleep? When your arms, Torso, Legs, And smile Stretch across My Dreams? I do not like how You linger into The day following my illusions— Moving from my brain To my heart, Squeezing me With each beat. What are dreams if not fragments of what was? You are not Always there— No. But when you are, You are all that is there. I do not like knowing That the rest of my life Will be plagued by thoughts Of you.

I want my love for you To smell like an old book— Where you can flip through the pages Of my affections And say, “Ah! Right here. Page 86: You wiped a tear from my cheek, And kissed me with more than Just your lips. That was the first time You kissed me with your heart.” Then you close the book Of my affections And inhale lightly The smell of my love. And you kiss me gently With your heart. I wrote this poem in February of 2018, and I remember that I wrote it within the span of ten minutes. That is the case of most of the poems I write: I find myself in a rush of sudden inspiration, and then I write it all out quickly, and then edit a couple words here and there, a few grammatical errors or place a comma or colon; then, after reading it two or three times, I say it's finished. I have a bad habit of not wanting to touch poems after writing them; I feel that, even though they are 99% fictional, they are genuine in the moment, and to go back at a later time to edit them would be...

She walked in through the main entrance as he stood in the foyer minding his own business, unaware of the change coming into his existence. The ancient belief came true, and light stood still in the foyer of his life, and the image before him left an imprint in his brain that he will never forget: Light scattered around her visage, leaving her to glow like something slightly more beautiful than an angel, yet smaller in figure—rays of light spearing through her strands of auburn. To enjoy what was in front of him was a child’s task; to relish in what was in front of him was the only correct thing to do: he would relish in her glow for as long as she would let him. “Excuse me,” she said, floating past him, eyes not quite meeting, but hers close enough to grow accustomed to the shape of his collar on his shirt. “I’m sorry,” she said, her hand brushing against the sleeve of his coat. He would never forget that first moment of contact, even if it was obstructed by fabric. “No wo...