My Refrigerator

My refrigerator is haunted by ghosts of girls gone by.

Gochujang from that crazy girl who liked to set my world on fire.

Kona Longboard in tallboy cans from The Matchbox Racer who cursed like a sailor, but kissed like a school teacher.

Moscato from The Scientist who spent her days tinkering with the windows to the soul, to give the world a brighter vision of the future.

Coors lite bottles, from the wild girl that started with hiking and a sandy cove, and ended with dinner and karaoke, and all the while whispering “popo haejo…

And most recently, spicy buffalo sauce from the Warrior Poet who I would eat chicken nuggets with at 2am in the morning.

…I think I need to go grocery shopping.

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Matchstick Girls

I’ve traipsed my way
through someone’s love again.
Completely thoughtless
to the consequences
and it’s only fitting that the axe
falls heavy on my head.

Because I’m to blame
for burning through good girls
like matches I can’t’ light

All He wanted
was the ring in his pocket
to glitter round her finger
and Her, his home and hearth
for the rest of their days.

And I the dower downpour,
snuffed her like
so many brief indulgences.
Now she’s his soggy tinder,
and I can’t even remember
what it was like to feel her
aglow in my cheeks
and the chill is setting in.

So I’ll stomp my feet and
cup my empty hands
in the shivering cold
on the outside looking in.
And I know.  

I’ll be the kindling in someone else’s pyre soon enough.

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The Postman finds his Way

She’s the kind of girl who’s seen the world, without letting the world see her.  Quiet and reserved, with a battery of walls and conditions, few travelers have ever traversed.  The best of her is nestled in the center, Where only one before me has entered, and that’s a woman worth getting down on one knee.  Though we’ have barely scratched the surface, with each step inward I discover how she could be perfect’ and worth this moment and every one to follow.  So we’ll take it slow.  Careful not to step into the pitfalls of where I’ve stumbled before.  As we sit on the playground talking about the ways our parents have aged.  I’m delving into her history to see who she’ll be when the days grow long ahead of me.  Because I already know she’s worth this moment, and every one to follow.  

You see, I’ve been writing you letters.  I’ve been through trials and tribulations to deliver them.  And with my ink-stained palms I take your hands.  And we are free.  

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