I can’t bring myself
to see if your baby
is a boy or a girl — if he/she
has your perfect blue eyes
and brilliant smile — so full
of vitality and goodwill.
and I know now that it will never be, and,
in retrospect, could never
but it’s still hard every time
I think about you
because I honestly thought he/she
would be my kid;
that it would be me
waking up beside you in the middle of the night,
tip-toeing quietly to the cradle
so as not to disturb the elongated silence
and look down at him/her with the
undying, unending, untainted love of fatherhood, before
returning to your side and risking a gentle kiss on
your porcelain cheek,
trying to find a way — any way — to make this moment
this is the softest thing
I’ve written in years,
but right now at the cross-section
of adderall, shisha, and unresolved
ancestral hopes and fears
I don’t want anything but
authenticity and unfiltered truth.
though the postmodern passions, the
primal interplay of self-indulgent
and all the deliberate distancing actions
have given me a strongbox of survival skills, I
realize now it’s all been a game, played
to cover-up the fact that I still
would never ask the universe
for anything but your, and his/her,
I’ve written so many anecdotes
about hooking up with all
these woman, all these whiskey highs, and self-portraits in
lamplight, cigarette smoke, and flattering James Dean denim, that
I forgot the beauty of our
and, darling, I don’t think it’s an exaggeration
that every one of these scars, nightmares, and esoteric revelries
cloaked in disarray
can be traced back to a single moment
3 years, 2 months, and 29 days.
I love you so much.
I’m sorry I couldn’t tell a lie when it mattered most.
I’m sorry I couldn’t stop you from falling off that cliff-edge.
I’m sorry I couldn’t find a way to believe in God, even though he would’ve been real if only I could have met him vicariously through you.
because your eyes are portals to divinity,
your lips are black-hole inter-dimensional travel to infinity,
and your smile is the only place I could ever see the image of my non-existent soul in perfect symmetry.
I love you.
I still wish I could talk to you, even if we’ve changed so much that we’d no longer
recognize each other.
you’re the only endless summer
I’ve ever believed in,
and I love you,
and I’m so sorry,
and I wish you every fragment of the sunshine-soaked story
that I will