since the day I met you, I have searched for this word. this big, beautiful, gigantic, glorious word to describe you. us. I am incapable of such a feat.  the weight which we hold defines and transcribes over and over which was born yet never fails to die. I am alone to carry the burden. kismet. but yet more than fate.  in Moirai white robed souls threads spun from the gods alone do not touch the etymology of us. Saudade by José Ferraz de Almeida Jr. saudade. other words bearing no translation its meaning too sacred for a tongue. I remember you.  you recollect me.  mutual longing to never return. but you're still here, aren't you? always here. somehow becoming the intrusiveness of my dreams dust on wrinkled photographs and cologne from triggered memories. in and out of me. through me. So I seek another word. perhaps hiraeth. homesickness for a place you cannot return to.  and over and over in my mind this word, this beautiful, gigantic,...

I am not impressed. Not impressed with the way your tongue moves, shifts vowels and constants together in a stinging way to reflect more vinegar than honey. Not impressed with bones of structure that God himself removed a rib to construct thee, but you don't fine my moves that Heavenly. Not all all moved. Captivated by goodbyes becoming more welcoming than hellos, and bitter sweets are accompanied by rum. And I'm numb. Surgically altered into slices and dices, how you expertly cared out the compassion and left the nothingness within me. Exalted. Never exalted. By pillars of upon pedastles that former lovers gave with ease, molehills become mountains from the fragment of small nonsensical things. I am not loved. Rabbits out the hat aren't your thing. Magic tricks aren't illusions so easily carved into truthful lips. He sways back and forth to falsify eyes where shadows are grasped by time instead of emotional movements. Grass is not greener. Never is. Maintenance require...

Pity the woman that feels her soul falling down the Rabbit hole, The intricate madness of all things joy and despair. Where down is up And up is down, Riddles become the silenced of A former lovers sound, And sweet nothing's are rushed Instead of hushed into slick Dick magnificence that births Life of lust. Pity her For she keeps falling more Endlessly Darkness becomes a tunnel Pigeonholed and clipped wings can't fly Nor see. Air all around, wishing For the solidarity of Sweet soil of the ground The firmness of real arms The swooping of a hero absent A man, not everything, Shoulder not wept on Laughter not heard. She falls. Deeper. Deeper, still. Fall deeper into what can be and what could be The what ifs and mere possibilities The congratulations and bittersweet salutations The false hopes and can't cope Of being with someone That isn't your second heartbeat. Memories. Grasping at straws, fragmented. The keen remembrance. I remember...

I wish I were an artist. Trace your curvature of lines in vivid detail and remark on the thickness smooth lips as they intense with hues of graphite and stencil. Wish I could paint vividly. an encased reverie of just you and I to become we. oh, how I wish to be the stroke on your body and retrace its endings and firm beginnings, retold in pastels, water soluble paints and revamped historical perspectives. I only wish to capture the image of you. Recapture the soul and eyes of orbs encased in the human skull so hard to shift elements in globs of watercolor. tell tales of high cheekbones and broad shoulders free following of a pencil in raised eyebrows and sympathetic frowns. A white eraser clings nearby, swiftly chasing hopes and dreams, lines drawn dark holed black and now vanishing  in dematerialized crumpled portraits. -b.r.rivera Poem 22 of 30, April 2012 #30in30

He loves me. We call this our secret place. our holy divine shining from the sky awkward and amusing feeling in the nook of your shoulder sacredness. here, I am hidden from all those that want to destroy me. you, my glorious prince and beautifully sun-kissed with no white horse but still defend me. and I want to live here. In this space. Forget about all time and dimension, hold unto a little sanctified beauty and lose my religion at the mere thought of you. He loves me not. We call it not seeing eye to eye. A fragment of losing control and too much stimuli. How raised voices become the ever present norm Cold shoulders and turned backs become the norm. here, I am the bitch you kick in the corner forgetting I snarl and bite back so who's to warn her of sleepless nights and insomnia filled moons Forget about everything and nothing and lose myself in doom at the mere thought of you. He loves me. We call this our beautiful beginning. Another day mark...

I don't remember his scent. I only remember fresh musk and dew sweat hidden in his sudden fragrance. How skin meets beyond pheromones and mutual attraction fire and desire and the chain to cause his reaction. A smile. gleaming white teeth filled with shiny pearl possibilities of tickling my spine in the nape of my neck brings the thrill to me. i begin to remember. remember his smooth walk of gliding asphalt and what I call swag. Smoke bellowing from his lips cigarettes of menthol in a wisp of his drag. and his talk. the way he would command his voice in clear octaves, bounce several degrees and be a lyrical gift go deeper, deeper still into jazzy voices and sweet hellos hidden goodbyes and empty cries. he was mine. I was his and I don't remember his scent. Don't remember his birthday which to pop out a cake suit-less anniversary marking a date full of love excess his favorite food he often devoured his special spot that gave me ...

I remember he wanted to marry me enclosed spaces shared tiniest of details How I suddenly became the girl of "we." that was years ago. End of a tragic tale. Even a ring was placed on my finger as a reminder for a day to with no pizzaz somewhere absent church bells ring old, turn and chime Something new, now blue. He said he would be mine. -b.r.rivera A   Rispetto . #30in30 Poem 10 of 30, April 2012

you don't ever need to cry for me souls empty where tears will begin numbness has its fixation lone in sweet sedation. warmth is familiar in sad goodbyes and hellos told in smiles. -b.r.rivera #30in30 Poem 3 of 30, 2012 A Nonet .

Silly little girl. She announced that her heart was on her sleeve bleeding red and pink smothered in satin hues tie dyed and worn as if the display had to be for the whole world to adorn. Silly little girl that played to and fro with the mere simplicity caring nothing of exposure, foreign objects and  bacterial disease scraping off bits from the venture of going to places a to z she carries her raggedy  old heart for the whole world to see Silly little girl wanted to announce that it was there for sharing made beautiful again by ribbons and bows for delicate hands  that holds no caring.  Robust by squeezing life again with hardly any feeling drums held in sync for the whole world  in beating Silly little girl said she did not longer care for a soul mate signed papers for her physician ordering do not resuscitate head held high, blood stain on her arm she felt the strain for the whole world to do harm She said Here is...

He showed me that all the world's a stage a constant manipulation of rehearsed lines and babbled manuscripts. he directs me. I put on makeup, carefully erasing wrinkles and worry lines creases from time. take a shot of liquor lubricant for frazzled nerves and  anxious butterflies still in their cocoons, buzzing to a wind that cannot hold them. shouting voices heard to an empty theater while crickets form an electric hum as the spotlight casts its vigilance upon me.  shadows dance on walls capturing moments past.  I hear the credits rolling already in my mind; who stars the show- who plays the sidekick, the annoying plot uncovered as the antagonist wins in the end.  Act Two, Scene Three enter stage right exit stage left. he creates a scene. tells me that he loves me. i invoke the numb set of emotions only this character can give half-heartily cry a little for the crowd, see that its all in vain the crimson curtain closes, its golden tassels swaying in t...

he called it a kiss. i called it a misrepresentation of a moment held lip to lip. hardly mentionable. if anything, exceedingly questionable of the stillness that holds silence in the dark. it lays thick. the silence. a hung canopy weighted in the air of deadly gasses to the masses particulate clouded in smokey haze and devilish grins of sarcasm and uncompensated limbs. how dare he even speak that word? he calls it a kiss. I take a drag of a menthol cigarette and exhale bullshit. we were once so beautiful then. no wrinkly lines to expose wasted years and wasted tears held with grains of sand and unspoken arguments that became our religion. the passion, an unrequited love marked by inked x's and o's reserved for secret lines and tell tale signs of what was passion of a honeymoon phase now the spark sprinkled from the star gazing eye dreaming of a hundred ways to become that reverie again. that mystical way in a graze of the skin became an ignitio...

Does a hope inscribed begin with subtle little lines engraved in shallow letters and hardened dreams faced with cursive lines and silent pleasantries How can a borrowed memory Become a shadowed past Fuzzy with details distastefully described In purgatory of Jacob's Ladder Worlds collide and clash and within, I find lies.   When a love letter becomes a complaint Where two wrongs become a right falls play to victim and Heavenly Saint When excuses become statements fallen from the lips Where complacency holds no wrongs because ultimately ignorance is bliss Where entering a home becomes a hostile territory When opening a lock becomes synonymous with dread from the flick of a key Does hope inscribed begin with subtle little lines Shaped as certificates that mean nothing Rings that are not eternal and dreams that give birth to become woeful funerals Anniversaries as impending doom A interruption to something- A toast to life, raise your glass Two young lo...

You invade me. There is no hidden offbeat path where I can dust myself off from rubble and shattered dreams. Bury myself from conflicted wounds and organized chaos that inevitably surrounds me. I wave a white flag. Simply surrender to the noise created from empty graves, beckoning scythe and Hail Mary's fingers approaching forehead, rosary laid to rest in heartless coffins. You are here. You hear no bugle horn calling its falling back, no wave of retreat into the dusk falling over the horizon. I have no place to go, no place to hide, no place to run Only a dream of what simple freedom felt like before the day disrupted cadence entered my life. -b.r.rivera

Do You Like Me? Circle YES         or          NO and meet me by the slide. The one next to the monkey bars, but not the one next to the swings. You know, the big one. I have something to give you. I know you don't like surprises, so I'll just tell you. Its a dandelion. My Pops said they're just a weed, but I think this flower would look pretty in your hair. I'll wait for you. Wait here for 10 minutes if I have to. I know its a long time, but good things come to those that wait? Well, my MomMom said that a watched pot never boils, so I think she's talking about me watching a clock but I don't know why a clock would be hot. You know. Not spicy. But from the heat. It is warm out here today. Listen, are you still reading this? Why don't you just come and give me the answer already. I'm going to miss the bus and its a long walk home When the answer is No. -b.r.rivera-taylor 12 of 30 #30in30

I love it that you're gone. I love the long winded absence of silence how two nothings became more than nothing but a pretend speech that was never spoken. I adore that you're gone. I adore how the seat is unfulfilled in momentary memories now a nightmarish calamity of how a relationship was never meant to be. I romanticize now that you're gone. I romanticize in warm touches and human embraces Fit for a body quenched in the desire of thirst where kisses are indulgent upon this idealistic notion. I am deliciously exuberant now that you're gone. I'm happy because I'm happy. I'm happy that A smile is upon my glamorous mouth and my teeth are showing their pearly whites to someone else. I'm glad that you're gone. I'm glad that you're not here. I'm glad that you're absent But not out of my mind. -b.r.rivera-taylor 10 of 30 #30in30

I heard you say my name. last night a pregnant moon hidden from shaded blinds  eyes frozen from auditory hallucinations  and it was you. I recollect tiny sparkles sprinkling in my ear a luminary shadow from the peeked tides gravitating toward you and I could feel your breath a past memory from cold windows and warm perspiration huffed on a glass, shadowed by a finger and  swirled into two opposing curves that create a heart figure. because two become one, if I stand corrected or the absolute truth defines circular thinking let him go, set him free if he is truly in love, he will come back to thee. Simplistic notions. Simply not an ocean we are divided across time and space a continuum that supersedes time zones and past lives sudden truths and hidden lies. i would recollect another memory but I'm sure that it was not meant to be. You keep coming. Invading. Creating space within me. I shove back a dream swirl it into a nightmare, paint pretty little demo...

Si yo fuera una mujer feliz, Yo exigiría que el mundo sea lleno de margaritas de Gerber. Luminoso y brillante re partiendo alegría en los rostros de encontrado a nadie que los pétalos. Para tener esta felicidad, Voy a disfrutar de la sencillez de los medios de los pétalos Arranca una Él me ama. Y otro,  Él no me ama. Cuando lleguen al final del tallo de la flor Yo pediría más pétalos. Aterricé en la pequeña frase que no me quiero repetir. él no me ama. Y tristemente, esta mujer feliz en el exterior llena la flor de lágrimas mojados, Visible pétalos de rosa y morado. Este pequeño rocío un recuerdo Que más del Cojo lo peor más se pone. Pero  yo adoro a poner esa flor en el pelo Pero esto es una flor media y la ira en mis pechos. Tener este espectáculo pétalo el marrón glaseado sobre mi piel. Los colores suaves y tonos pastan en las líneas secreto de mi cuerpo humano. Él me ama. Él no me ama. Lamentablemente, esta flor se ha quedado sin pétalos Y me ha...

just one last breath.    allow me to breathe life into you be the whisper of dust collected in shallow grains excavated from the earth and mineralized into a thousand pieces    of you.    let your chest rise and fall into rhythmic beats reserved for soul deep conversations and intellectual being reservations. to have you speak, just one more time, one more moment, one more second.    just one last breath.    allow me to manually stimulate your aorta and ventricles pulsate the veins filled with cellular blood and genetic DNA that surpasses the scientific human being that walks the earth normalized in crowds and stands apart with your specific individualism. to have you, just one more time. one more minute. one more moment. because I remember. I remember the smile that used to spread eagle across your face, your teeth glaring at the sun, polished to radiate the raging inferno that feeds off the ene...

a still picture. i captured you in a moment, in a once upon a time fragment suspended by hands of time freely ticking upon tocks and halted for your time of release. you are, to me, a simple still picture trying to be a part of conscious memories where subconscious memories dance upon shadows on walls and laughter that was reverberated off the acoustic ceilings. i captured you in a moment. a stillness that was both moving and vibrant free and totally me cherished and impoverished of what that "l" word is supposed to be. but you are not worthy. not worthy to grace my thin inner plastic linings of adhesive glue meets matte paper indulgence of a photo frame desire upon a memory book. your pages did not last i can not escape the mere thought of how seven little images can capture a few months a few weeks, a few seasons, a few years.... perhaps we did not like to snap the photo did not like to capture what was supposed to be free capture what was supposed to not be exposed capture...

an impression. the gentle and subtle hint of where your everlasting thumb print kissed the inner linings of what i have missed. and i missed you. grieved the tears of a faux funeral complete with Hail Mary's/Amazing Grace/baby's breath and coffin lined inner lace. i mourned you. mourned not the death of you going to the infinite land of non-living because your presence here shows that your breath was worth giving and i see you before me not a mirage hidden surprise you are, yet your body tells lies. here. but not here. i grieve. Grieve because I am losing you have lost you will lose you. the inevitable of Glady's Knights "Neither one of Us" plays on repeat i nod my head in comparison as I weep trying to show my faith in what was but cannot be you have left that lasting impression on me. your thumb print. I still feel the heat upon my skin as you touched the coldness of me we were naked skin glossed by sweat in the moonlight and fruitless enemies impregnated by raw...