Nov 2014

Meet me, Cameran, Published Author

Last week, I was in NYC. As in the Big Apple, Broadway, if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere, the city of Annie Hall, Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan, and Jay Z.

I also got the privilege to perform some spoken word poetry at the famous Bowery Poetry Club. And guys, I did it. I really did it. My piece won fave of the night, and now I will be published in their yearly anthology! See pic and piece below for proof.

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Love Looks


When I look at you, I don’t see love.

I see a good night’s sleep. That think I’m constantly craving but can never seem to get quite enough of. I see escape from anxiety and rest for my weary eyes. I see a place to grow my dreams and strengthen my days. I don’t count sheep. I count number of times I can make you laugh. But I lost track somewhere around ‘mockingbird’ or ‘diamond ring.’ The laughter on your lips is my lullaby, as surely as if you sing it to me.

When I look at you, I don’t see love.

I see a cup of coffee. My wake up call. My catharsis. My favorite vice. Rarely do my mornings start without sipping you in, feeling you course through my veins, and kickstart my heart. I should just call you Joe because a cup of you is the best part of waking up.

When I look at you, I don’t see love.

I see postage stamps. Letters from a long distance love. You’ve traveled a long way. We may always have been in the same place, but I have postcards in my mind from St. Patrick’s Day 2008. With each calendar year, the distance fades, but letters still come to mind from four years ago, three years ago, two years ago, today.

When I look at you, I don’t see love.

I see a telescope because when you look at me, you see stars. I can tell because they glisten and shine and reflect in your own eyes. You connect my dots and paint constellations from my flaws. You see the space-like complexity that goes on in my head, and like the moon finds the earth and the earth finds the sun, you make sense of the infinite.

When I look at you, I don’t see love.

I see Shakespeare or Ibsen or Moliere. I see the classics. ‘But soft what light through yonder window breaks.’ I hear iambic pentameter. There’s a rhythm and a dance. There’s archetype in this romance. Maybe I see that I just compared you to Shakespeare, and somehow you still find me adorable. You enable all my quirks.

When I look at you, I don’t see love.

I see my dad’s hand-me-down jacket. I did not expect your arms to fit me so well. A little big, but just enough to make me feel held. Years of history have worn a hole in the right pocket, but that’s OK. It reminds me not to keep you at arm’s length. Time can slip through those holes. But, rather hold you up close, so I can share in your strength. There’s a rust stain from an old metal button, but I don’t mind. The copper color reminds me when I’m careless, you bleed. So I need to be careful with this valuable antique. Because you won’t find it often. It’s one of a kind. It once belonged to someone else, but now, it’s mine. I put my fingers in the pockets and find new stories we’re writing ourselves. I zip up the zipper, and it fits as if it was made for me the whole time.

When I look at you, I don’t see love.

I see chemistry or anatomy or some other highschool science class innuendo. I see myself being emptied out and filled up again. The simultaneous mixing of insides. We blend and blur. Chemical reactions changing who we once were. Sweat forming hydrogen bonds that bind us together as if sharing electrons. You can keep my heart. But, be gentle. Once given, it breaks easy. You can keep my liver, the seat of passion, as long as these sleepless nights and waking dreams continue. I’ll trade you for your lungs, so when you breathe in and you breath out, it’s through my lips. I can be your oxygen and fill you up again. I’ll keep your eyes too. So I can see me the way you see me. Beautiful. When I don’t believe it. Beautiful. When I’m too tired to hear it. Beautiful. When the tears on my cheeks and your chest beg to differ. Beautiful.

When I look at you, I don’t see love.

I see a man. No similes. No metaphors. Just someone broken like I am. I see your hands that are fractured from forgotten friends and paper-thin promises. And maybe, just maybe, they can puzzle piece fit around my shoulders that are weary and worn from the weight of the world. I see your heart that’s been torn out and tossed around like a game of pick up. But, it’s not a game of pick up, but keep. See, we fall in love like we fall asleep: slowly at first and then all at once. So maybe, just maybe, I can puzzle piece fit your heart back into your chest. It might feel a little different now. A little lighter. Because somehow with your basketball heart and my surgeon’s hands, that are neither steady nor strong, we were able to lighten the load.

When I look at you, I don’t know what I see.

But, I know I’ll keep looking.


(sheesh, who is the dude, anyway?)




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