Found You

I don’t recall how we met

or when or where or why;


I only remember finding you

in a hand draped carelessly across my shoulder

or between fingers tangled in my hair,

on the dull, inked pages of novels I’ve read and

in the sweet sonorous pauses of

wishful discussions,

or at the bottom of glasses of liquid guilt

and overflowing ashtrays.

I found you too often;

flesh and veins and bones;

stardust in your eyes

and champagne in your smile

so forgive me when I say I was mostly drunk

Too often

to notice

you are the boy next door

or the friend,

the best friend or the more-than-a-friend,

the stranger and the boyfriend

and the somebody I used to know.

I’ve found you

time and time again

between the polite gentleman

and the cracker of crass sex jokes,

between well-musked womanizing

and a doe-eyed sensitivity and

between fully dressed hellos

and very naked goodbyes.

I’ve known you

with fingers like teacups in an earthquake,

working the latch of a lighter only to

Drop cigarette butt after butt;

holding women like me like wounded birds

or a bag of eggs

or, at least, trying to. Pardon me, but

both things just look ridiculously weak

surrounded by all that strength and yet

you curve into a question mark

beneath the weight of the great unknown

you call ‘feelings’.

I’ve found you

carrying your heart in one hand

and baggage in the other

wondering what feels heavier.

So often

I know you wake up

to an empty bed,

only one toothbrush by the sink

and zero text messages

and all you really look for

are matching socks and the reasons why.

I also know you know these reasons

all too well

too often.

Someone told a little boy

“you are just like your father”

so you learned to love like he did;

engulfed her in the taciturn tornado of your passion

not knowing how much was enough.

I’ve seen you

collecting pieces of her and her and that other one

to create a misguided mosaic, your masterpiece-

title it commitment and daddy issues

all too much colour

all too much noise

all too much of too little you gave

and all too much of how too late it was

before you realized

how afraid you are of being alone.

I’ve found you

making a museum out of this life,

still living with fragments of dusty histories,

trying to pin how, when, where and why

to layer timeline upon timeline and

too often

you give up.

And too often, you watch Blame show himself out

only to let Reason sneak out the back door


I’ve come to find you

too often

overcome by wanderlust,

a traveller without a map or direction

and I wonder if you’re straining to escape

the demons in your head

or the one, Responsibility, underneath the bed

I’ve found you

breathing fire with your words and

weakened inside that tall ice fortress

and sometimes

the rusty gates fell open for me,

and other women like me,

who tried to tell you how much they loved you

or hated you

or wanted you or didn’t need you;

ones that left lipstick stains

and broken promises and the taste of their skin

in your mouth;

ones who were only a good vibe and endless laughter

and why you sometimes lay awake at night

and I don’t have these things for you.

I’m not the answer because

you are not a question

or a journey or a reason. You are the destination.

You have always been the place and sometimes you

are home.

You might be lonely, right now,

But you are not alone.


And you are



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