For my Anna Belle

For that which we have
and have forever
let go of
but never really
held onto

for your lips

for having extended
your ever gentle hand
to massage my cold
broken heart

to heal me
then break me

and for having drawn
from my very breath
the words that would ultimately
force us apart

and for knowing
that in all my mystery
ghostly though I
will now remain

so shall remain
that which drove
the tears of joy

my love.

my most pure
concentrated
unspoiled love

may there come
for us
a day when I
once again

riot
at your soul's door

A dusty ashtray

It's not that I miss you.

I miss my father

and the way that he would 

cringe when he took his first sip

off his cold can of refrigerated Pepsi.

Or the way he was so casually cool

with whatever pothole he would

find himself driving over.

He was a great smoker.

Not like the kind that struggled to imitate 

someone they imagined were cool.

No, he was a natural.  

It was clear to anyone who watched him

that it wasn't about addiction,

he actually enjoyed the whole process

the same way a small child

enjoys a sandbox or a frisbee.

Maybe someday I'll miss smoking,

or the sandbox,

I might even miss you.

Until then I'll miss my father,

and the hope that one day

I'd hear from you again.