{ My People }

My people

Came the deep and soothing tones

As God Almighty uttered the words to those whose ears had been attuned to listen.

And from His mouth came the history of nations,

A story of matter formed ex nihilo--

Of flesh carved out of clay.

My people

Came the clamoring roars of a voice grieved by betrayal--

Stained by anger--impregnated with longing.

And from His thundering heartbeats came a rhythme of judgement--

A proclamation of punishment,

A warning of destruction--

Because His people had turned away

And become strangers before their God.

My people

Came the whispers of a broken body

As His limbs hung on splintering beams of shame.

And from His cracked and swollen lips came the words of a lover

And a savior--

Came the words of a healer

And a victor--

Came the words of a God whose name is Immanuel,

Who dwelt among the same people who had deafened their ears so many years before.

My people

He will come to say with the regal voice of the King known as I AM.

And on that last day His people will answer.

{ American Dream }

Tightly regimented hours of self-indulgence,

Mixed with pixilated chronologies

Of minute minutes

Seasoned with generous helpings

Of absent todays

Spent mapping out tomorrows:

That is who I am.

Wispy plans for years to come

Pervade the murky sidewalks

Of my memory lane

While I sprint towards the distant intersection

Of wanton excess.

But I never seem to reach the elusive goal that is

My future,

Because--

For some reason--

It is always

Now.

But Now is not a currency I am used to dealing with:

I am not content with the moments on my doorstep--

Cannot focus on the seconds surrounding my body--

Unable to grasp what it means to live in the here--

To live

In the Now.

Rather,

My eyes are fixed on that fluorescent light--

The one at the end of my tunnel--

Where I will burst into the paparazzi-filled arena

And experience the comfortable victory

Of the realization

Of my plans.

I can feel the pulse in my body beating to the rhythm of instant

Gratification--

Of permanent

Relaxation--

Or everlasting ease in an economy

Fixated on me,

Me only,

And me always.

And so I will strive

For a prize I know I can easily attain--

An empty victory coated in caramelized commercialism--

A bucket of disappointment at the end of

My credit card

Rainbow.

And when I have done all that--

When I have wedged myself into this

Confining

World of self-indulgence,

When I have given up on the life I thought I wanted,

When I have shredded all the blank checks

I used to write my future,

And when I have set fire to the 401K

I thought was worth having--

I know

You will not forget me.

I know

You will still be waiting.

And I know

You will still

Love me.

Because that is who

You are:

A cleansing breath of the Majestic

Amid the all-consuming narcissism

Of my American Dream.

{ Little Letters }

It only took four sentences--

Seventy-nine words--

And in a moment I was reminded

Of how very much

I miss you.

And it only took twenty seconds for me to skim the lines

You had scratched out

Telling me you are still there--

Still digging your toes into the moist soil of an old continent--

Still that person I remember from the hazy yesterdays

Of our younger years.

And I only had to glance at the name on the letter

Before my heart

Leapt against my ribcage--

And my mouth

Drew back to reveal a girlish smile--

And my eyes

Glowed with a gentle warmth--

Because that

Is who you are.

That is who we are.

And that is why,

After all these years,

I can still say

I love you

And mean it.

{ A Manhattan Workout: Dear Upper East Side Mothers }

Start with the neck:

Slowly move it side to side,

And watch the people

You all too often ignore on your daily walks

To the store.

A stiff neck will serve you worse than aching joints

When age has finally caught the express to

Your body after years of

Traveling on the local.

Remember those are mothers on the sidewalk--

Not obstructions.

And those are students in the station--

Not pests.

And those are conversations you are hearing--

Not static noise.

There is a world of lives surrounding yours.

For better neck muscles,

Start noticing it.

For stronger biceps and forearms,

Pick up your child.

Lift him up each time his hands reach for yours,

Clutch him close enough to smell the lingering scent

Of Cheerios clinging to his body,

And rock him to sleep each night

As if it's the last time you will ever

Get to hold him.

There will come a time when--instead of picking him up--

You will only get to pick up after him.

And those will be the days when you wish

You could have held his small body

Just a little

Longer.

For your abdomen,

Laugh until your sides hurt.

Crouch down to talk to your child--

On his level.

Roll on the floor with him,

And see the world from the only angles he knows.

Chase after him with smiles,

Scoop him up off of the sidewalk,

And swing him around and around and around

Until his laughter ingrains itself in your ears

And you cannot help but join in.

Do not let his younger years

Be spent wondering

What joy sounds like.

For better posture,

Play dress up on occasion, and dress for you--

Not for fashion week.

Wear your confidence like you where your bra:

Make sure it fits and holds you up,

But let it pass unnoticed by the people you meet on the street

Who are led to believe

It is natural.

And instead of jogging on a coldly calculating treadmill,

Take a walk down Madison with your husband.

Don't forget what you've learned so far--

Realize you are not alone in this world.

There are other stories being intertwined with yours.

Walk with purpose,

Not impatience.

Remember you have already got to where you are going

Just by standing

At his side.

And to exercise the rest of your lower body,

Well,

You know what to do after that walk.

For elegant hands,

Practice hearty handshakes.

For healthy feet,

Use them to go to the places you actually want to go.

For fuller lips,

Smile every morning before you leave your home.

And for younger skin,

Let your husband leave his kisses along your

Neck and your shoulders and your elbows and your hands.

Let the vibrancy of his affection serve as the blush for your cheeks.

And if you yet need radiance,

Remember,

You are loved.

{ Anything at All }

Is there anything I wouldn't do for you?

He asked--

He interjected--

As the tears dripped from my lashes and filled the creases in my face.

Is there anything I wouldn't give you?

His words filled my ears with the roaring of lions,

With the magnitude of ocean waves colliding against the salt-sprayed rocks of a misty coast.

Anything at all?

And again my senses were overwhelmed with the beating of my heart against my ribcage--

Harder, as the deafening noise of his voice struck my ear drums once, twice,

Three times I heard the question.

Then again--

Is there anything I wouldn't do for you?

No,

Came my breathless reply.

I don't believe there is.

My mouth is parched,

Trying to articulate,

Trying to formulate,

Trying to make myself understood

For the first time--

Tears still clinging to silver-lined lashes,

Still clutching the lines in my face,

Still oozing down my pale cheeks in an attempt to make known

The thoughts bleeding out of my head.

Anything at all?

No! No, there isn't.

I understand.

But my tongue is caged behind my teeth.

I cannot answer, and so I am silent--

On the outside,

Shrieking--

On the inside,

Trapped--

Within my body,

Longing--

For release.

I heard you.

You would do anything for me.

But my heart refuses to let such information penetrate its guarded walls.

I can't handle the knowledge that I didn't earn it--

Cannot lose it--

Unable to deserve it--

That kind of love.

Yet every fiber of my being wants to work for it and prove I am enough.

Is there anything I wouldn't do for you?

No, there's not! I get it.

I heard you the first time

And the second time

And the third time.

I heard you when you knelt by my side and cradled me in your arms,

Heard it when you whispered in my ear and comforted me with promises I knew

Would not be broken.

The forth time

And the fifth time,

I heard you when you held my hand in yours and led me away from the explosions,

Let me away from the land mines that had been planted in my bedroom

And my hallways

And my sidewalks.

I heard you.

But I cannot hear you.

Anything at all?

Stop saying that! God, I'm tired of hearing it.

I don't want to hear it.

I don't want anything,

And I don't want everything

I--

I don't know what I want--

What I want at all.

I'm just so tired of the ache that fills every crevice of my chest when I'm not near you,

Can't handle the gnawing acid of my own depravity,

Sick of waiting on my own two hands to change the makings of my soul.

Is there anything I wouldn't do for you?

I heard you. I heard you. I heard you. I heard you. I heard you.

But now I've found a voice to answer.

And before I can stop them, the words slip past my lips--

Would you break me down until there is nothing left of me?

Would you burn the pieces of my heart that have infected my soul?

I try to stop my reckless words, but they gush over my tongue and saturate the air--

Break me. Break me. Break me.

I need you to crack the bones in my body--

That's what I want.

Let me fall to the ground and smell the soothing scent of soil against my scarred and weathered cheeks,

Feel the moist earth next to my cracked and bleeding skin,

The harsh gravel cutting into my side.

Take my limbs and make them submit.

Would you do that for me?

Anything at all?

But then would you make me whole again?

After you've broken me, would you--

Would you stitch up those gashes and force those joints back in their sockets and repair my fragmented limbs?

Would you pick me up and hold me on your lap so I can see what you see and feel what you feel?

Would you let me lay my head against your chest and listen to the thumping of your heart against your ribcage?

Is there, he said,

Anything I wouldn't do for you?

No.

I don't think there is.

Anything at all?

No.

You've given me more than enough.

Anything at all?

No.

You're more than I could ever deserve.

Anything at all?

He said.

And then I said nothing.

I said nothing.

I said

Nothing.

But now

I hear him.

{ Frailty }

So this is

Frailty.

And it is terrifying.

These limbs are but shadows of the powerful

Arms and legs they were before.

This heartbeat is but a whisper of the pounding

Pulse is used to be.

And these eyes are but clouded versions of the piercing

Lights they once were.

And now these muscles have slacked

So that this body feels a burden too heavy to bear.

And these fingers have fall'n limp

So that they cannot hold the pen they are so accustomed

To cradling

Between their feeble tips.

And thus this frailty

Taunts my being with a malice marked by memories--

Memories of what once was

And is no more.

{ 21 }

First we add the finger paints

And the scraps of paper laden with dragons--

Scaly,

Green,

And lopsided.

Each scribble represents the labors of my tiny hands--

Driven by an imagination spanning the universe--

Directed by feeble attempts to communicate

The dreams and aspirations

Of a five year-old.

Then we add the cleats and jerseys,

The cargo khaki camo shorts

With pockets for toads and pens and paper and bubble gum.

With these items come the years of sorting through identities--

Trying on new ones before tossing them out for the

Latest

And

Greatest

Trend that suited the agenda of my middle school mind

As I tried to pilot my way through puberty

And muster enough courage to like the girl I saw every morning

When I looked in the mirror.

Next come the plastic cards

Stamped with my name--

All bearing my picture--

Giving me freedom

In the form of licenses and credit cards and school IDs.

These objects are smaller than my preschool portraits

Or preteen wardrobe,

But they bear the weight of the years I spent

Learning what to make of words like

Potential.

And they are pocket-sized testaments of

My adventures maneuvering vehicles and navigating

High school.

But now

It is time to add life-long friendships and metro cards,

Marked up textbooks and apartments keys,

Transcripts and heartaches.

These are the things that remind me I am not the little girl

With crayons between her thumb

And her forefinger.

And these are the things that show me I have outgrown

Prom dresses and sweet sixteens.

And when the stuff of which my past is made

Is tallied,

It equals the sum total

Of twenty-one years.

It equals

A life.

Jerseys and puberty,

Crayons and all.

{ Attic }

Lonely thoughts creep through the cobwebs

While wisps of smoke lace the air near my face,

Reminding me of tobacco--

And your old corncob--

A pipe worn by years of hanging on the edge of your mouth,

Bruised by your fingertips,

Saturated with the memories you wedged into its stem.

Sunlight trickles through the rafters

As I lean back on the creaking floor.

It moans and mutters and mumbles under my weight--

Telling me I am a tyrant for forcing it to bear my body.

I tell it now is the time for quiet.

Yet it assaults my palms with dirt and splinters,

Reminding me of the days when my fingers ran freely along

These smooth oak floors.

Those were the days when armies marched between the chairs

That now stand ever silent--

Draped in sheets--

Ghosts of splendors long forgotten--

Days when our tin soldiers led the charge to victory.

Those were the Sunday afternoons when you and I

Would crouch in our church clothes

And conquer India

Before supper

And Somalia

After dessert.

You told me about the war,

And I devoured your tales of far away places

Like chocolates on a summer afternoon.

I remember the infantries that lined these boards

When once the world seemed large.

You were the towering giant

And I your eager accomplice.

But looking at the covered sofas and aging trunks,

I realize it is I who am large and the world that is small.

And now there is no one to tell me

About the far scents of curry and jasmine.

The dust is interrupted

By the tears that seep from my eyes.

Those are the only armies I see any longer.

And these soldiers march on relentlessly--

Dampening my cheeks

And soiling my shirt--

As they let my mem'ries leave stains on my face.

And you--

With your corncob pipe--

Have left me to play war all alone.

And now the thoughts that creep through the cobwebs

Have taken up residence in my mind.

And I know that for now

They are here to stay.

{ Emptiness }

I look around my empty apartment.

The walls are bare,

Screaming at me through the blank abyss of a white

That is not so very white

And a nakedness that is clothed in scuffs and stains.

The dishwasher hums in unison with the box fan,

Each one whispering of a tomorrow that will be spent in other places--

Away from here--

Some place where the walls are silent because they are draped in color.

But for now,

As I sit next to boxes piled one on top of the other, on top of the other,

On top of the other,

I realize that my life has been half deconstructed,

My good-byes are half way over,

And my will to keep pushing more than half way spent.

Because I am tired.

And the tension in my muscles has slacked so that the task of moving

From point A to point B

Seems insurmountable.

And these eyes--

The ones that eagerly devoured my environment several months ago--

Only want to be tucked in by my soft eyelids.

They are tired of looking at this disheveled apartment,

And I don't blame them.

My year--with its memories and its heartaches--has been stuffed in

Cardboard.

And somehow, the memories seem less rosy

The more they are packaged in boxes.

There is a burning in my veins,

And there are sobs creeping up the walls of my throat--

Waiting to break free from my mouth.

So I keep my lips wedged together, hoping that I will not be asked

To speak,

Because then I will not be able to keep myself from crying--

And now is not the time for that.

{ Delicate Constellations }

Smeared across a darkening sky,

Flecks of light wink at the earth's corners,

Tempting you to come

And chart your course.

Equipped with creaking boughs

And steady eyes,

You released your vessel from the docks

To set sail.

And with this burden to chase the horizon,

You left this world--old and tired--

To find a new one--

One that would douse your thirst for discovery.

Across the leagues your vessel sailed

As you plotted your way to a world untouched by men like you--

Men who carried with them the power to change it--

To chart it--

To caress its mountains and valleys with their eager eyes and stalwart tools.

Yet as you sailed,

Your spirit found a sweet release in mapping--not land--

But stars.

Your arms and legs and hands and feet

Propelled you to the heights of your ship

Where at last you found your rest and tilted your gaze towards the heavens.

Equipped with your astronomical device,

You lingered in your silent perch

Waiting for the sky to unfurl before you

That you might decipher the constellations etched across its vast expanse.

And as you rested in your sanctuary of seclusion--

With one eye closed while the other drank deeply of the intensified view

That your mechanism provided--

You began your task of sifting through the mysteries

That filled the night hours.

You started with Orion

And found the waist that marked the hunter,

Then followed the lines that led to the arms that held the bow.

And with your piercing gaze, you drew back the layers--

The exterior known to those who merely cast glances

At the rigid, majestic form.

But your gaze searched the hunter's depths,

Giving life to the one who sought the prize that remained ever aloof.

Then you shifted your weight

And moved your apparatus towards the lounging queen.

And there you discovered the curves that long to be caressed--

Clutched tight by love's firm grasp,

Yet gently held.

You were not rough with her.

But instead invited her to show you why she fled across the sky,

Why her torments plagued her endlessly,

Why she would not stop for words or woos.

And as you ascertained her secrets,

You stowed them away in humility

And continued to explore.

Having spoken with the queen,

You shifted your body once again as the waves rocked your ship ever slowly

And looked up at the seven sisters.

They hid among the brighter lights

But were not overlooked by your careful eye.

You spoke softly to them

And coaxed them out from behind the meekness veiling their resplendent faces.

And, O, how they came alive!

Dancing in a ring that fell on softer ground

Than the shores you sought afar.

Their movements trailed in the heavens and

Send soft ripples into the folds of darkness around them.

You watched and smiled,

The mysteries unraveling before your eye,

As you gleaned a knowledge known by few

And understood in its fullness by fewer still.

And after understanding what constituted the sisters' essence,

You turned to the sky at large

And etched delicate constellations of your own,

Leaving sweet kiss along the horizon,

Gently moving up to the height of the heavens.

For you had earned the right to leave your mark upon the night sky.

Then, as a man who mapped out his portion of the stars,

You set aside your tools

And laid amid the rigging around you,

Letting your thoughts linger

And intertwine with the miry blackness above

As you let it explore your depths.

Yet just as sleep tempted your eyelids--

With gentle hands and a soothing release--

A voice was heard from the deck below,

A herald proclaiming

Land.

You moved with a caution known by stiff muscles--

Of a mind long distracted by mysteries yet untouched--

And looking at the constellations you had yet to explore,

You sighed a sigh of moments well spent--

Or memories forged and cherished--

Then descended from your perch to drink in all your eyes would behold

Of your new world.

The shores lay just beyond your grasp,

An Eden untouched by your tools--

A land that blushed under your firm gaze.

But listening to the whispers that wove through your sails,

You turned once more to the skies above

And consented with a gentle nod that you were a Columbus--

Not a Lewis or a Clark--

And in persisting further, you would become a young Cortez.

So you left these shores--

My shores--

That another might come and take your place.

For this world--

With its intricacies and vulnerabilities--

Was only yours to discover.

But the day shall come

When the one who is meant to spend his years mapping out its geography

Will return to this deep harbor

And thank you for your labors.

{ Grieving }

I started with the closet

And unpacked all the boxes

That held our Kodak film.

I ran my fingers along the outline of your yearbook portraits

And your gym class snapshots

And your graduation candids

And our wedding day photographs.

That was the day I had to face the reality

You

Were never coming back.

And I told myself this was healthy--

That those shelves could not stay frozen in time,

That leaving things just

The way

They are

Would not allow me to spin back the hands of that ticking clock

And breath life into your lungs again.

So I disturbed the silence

And found the memories we hid in our raincoat pockets

And faded tennis shoes.

I fingered your sweatshirts hanging limply on the wire hangers

Near the back of the closet

Where fishing poles and cobwebs

Kept them company.

Then I pulled them off the rack,

Carefully folding them with a precision that can only be explained by hesitation:

Was it too soon?

Could this wait--

For now?

But I kept on,

Slowly removing each hanger from each neck hole

As I waited for God to stop me

And tell me this was all a misunderstanding.

I knew if it was

I could find it in my heart to forgive Him

For taking you away from me.

But with each sweater

And each polo

And each button up

I found more and more reason to believe that this

Wasn't just pretend.

And each box I filled

Marked another step

Towards finality

As my reality

Was defined by your absence.

But you must still be here.

I can smell you on the leather jacket I can't bring myself to touch.

I can hear you in the clink of each hanger--

Almost as if you're still getting ready in the morning,

Rushing to throw on whatever is convenient,

Forgetting to check if it's clean.

And I can feel your breath against my skin when the box fan murmurs in the bedroom.

I can see your shadow when the dim light creeps in our window.

I can taste your aftershave on the corners of my lips--

A gentle reminder of when I kissed you every morning as you got ready to go.

But I cannot keep waiting for you to come home.

And so

I am left to crouch on my knees--

Folding the clothes you forgot you even owned--

As I try and figure out what it means

To move on.

{ Are You Listening? }

I need you to listen

Because I'm telling you I love you.

And I need you to stop repeating excuses

And pointing to old wounds

And getting distracted

And ignoring my voice

When I whisper your name.

I need you to hear me

When I say that

I love you.

But I will not let my words stand alone--

Even though my Word is enough.

I will romance your heart until there

Can be no doubt--

Now

Or ever--

That I would die,

And have died,

Just

For you.

I need you to understand

When my actions proclaim throughout the cosmos that

I love you.

And I will not stop reminded you of how utterly

And fully

And unchangingly

And deeply

I love you.

And I will not stop pursuing the heart

That I set beating in your chest

As I push the blood through your veins

And bring the color to your cheeks--

A sweet blush of understanding--

When I tell you that you are worth more than you think.

I need you to stop giving your love

To everything that tries to compare

To how much

I love you.

Because I am a jealous lover.

And I will not take you

So divided.

I will not have you

Part of the way.

I will not be satisfied

With anything short of everything.

I need you to grasp

What I poured out

Just to have the chance to tell you that

I love you.

I want you to know that I delight

In your laughter,

That I weep when

You cry.

I want you to know that your wounded spirit

Has not gone unnoticed.

And I want you to know that your heartaches

Will not go un-soothed.

I meant what I said

When I wrote your name on the palm of my hand

And whispered to the depths of your soul that

I

Love

You.

Beloved,

I've brought you here

To tell you

That you are precious,

To tell you

That you are pursued,

And to tell you

That you are loved.

Are you listening?

{ On The Road }

"I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn't know who I was—I was far away from home, haunted and tried with travel, in a cheap hotel I'd never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the high cracked ceiling and really didn't know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn't scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost. I was halfway across America, at the dividing line between the East of my youth and the West of my future, and maybe that's why it happened right there and then, that strange red afternoon." - Jack Kerouac

{ Tea Time }

The spoon comes up to my lips

And there is a pause

As the golden liquid swirls and simmers--

Trembling--While the breath streams out of my mouth

As I blow.

It's hot,

I tell him.

He nods.

Another spoonful of herbal healing--

Laced with sugar,

Warmed with care,

Steeped and ready

To be consumed.

The spoon nears my lips once more

As my eyes glance down into the copper liquid.

I see flecks of tea leaves dancing near the silver

Bottom of my ordinary

Household

Utensil.

Ready?

I ask him.

He nods.

We sit is a sweetly savored silence

Running lines through our heads

As my lips remain shut by choice

But his by birth--

No room for nurture

To tease out of his lungs

The breath needed to rattle the voice from his mouth

Allowing him to speak.

One more,

I whisper.

He nods.

I set the spoon aside.

The cup burns my hands as I grip it with both palms.

But the sensation of ceramic stinging my hands

Seems a comfort--

At least I can still feel.

At least we are still here.

I move my knees

And stretch my toes,

Watching the wisps of fog issuing from my mouth as the warm air collides with the chill around me.

He is sitting there--

His eyes ever fixed on a mark I cannot see

And a light I cannot feel

And a world I can never explore.

But I know the emptiness is his façade--

Behind those glassy eyes and flushed cheeks

There is a life.

Are you there?

I want to ask.

But I don't.

And so he cannot nod in response.

But I do not need muscles contracting and releasing to signal

To me that he is still here.

And I do not need a doctor to spin a web to catch himself if this should all go wrong

And I do not need to hear any more excuses from the nurses and the specialists

And the lawyers and the relatives and the mailman

To tell me

He is still here.

I take up the spoon

And ease it to his lips--

Silently begging him to part the wall barring the way to his mouth one last time.

It's cool now,

I tell him.

And he nods.

{ Wallflower }

There are some days

When I do not want to finish the book I am reading--

The book I am devouring--

Because I know by the end of the book

It will become one of my favorites.

And there is always the subtle fear

That the next book I read will not live up to this one.

And all it will foster

Is disappointment.

There are some days

When I am sitting on an aeroplane--

When I have stowed my bag under the seat in front of me

(No thank you,

I would not like a blanket)

And I have clicked the buckle around my waist--

Though not too snugly--

When I am listening to the murmur of strangers and the rustling of papers--

That I hear it

Coming softly,

Wafting slowly,

Gently drifting out of the speakers:

A song from ages past when

I

Was still in middle school.

And I hear the guitar cords skip across my eardrums

As the lead singer

Tells the world

What he thinks it ought to know.

And it is when I hear those words

Sung sweetly,

Ever lightly

On that that airplane stereo,

That I wish this moment would linger longer.

And it does--

For a time.

Until it is used up.

And there are some days

When the searing reality of

You

Having been

Here

With me

Seems to much to understand.

And so reality beats about my ears

As my eyes watch re-runs of life passing

Me by.

On those days

I prefer not to watch

But then I cannot help it.

Because you are not here anymore.

And neither am I.

We have both gone away.

But your going has taken you farther.

And my going has grounded me here--

To stay.

There are some days

When I wonder if

You ever

Think about the lilacs and the lilies I pressed in your old books.

And there are moments when I wonder if

You ever

Lick your lips the way you used to before you said your thoughts aloud.

And

There are

Alwayes

When I wonder if

My alwayes ever meant even a sometimes to you.

But those are the days

When I realizes you could not

Tell me that even if you wanted to.

And so I choose never to ask.

{ An Intellectual Affair }

I woke up the other day to realize I was entangled with not one,

Or two,

But three men--

With the list growing by the week.

They had not left my side since the day that I met them,

And I was not eager for them to leave.

I had grown accustomed to their company,

Addicted to their presence.

I was in over my head.

These men had seduced me with their fervent words,

Captivated me with their rugged perception,

And explored my depths as no one had before.

I

Am involved in an affair of the most epic kind

With men who stand as pillars supporting Western Civilization.

They have won me over body, soul, and mind.

I have grown to need them with each passing moment of my dull existence.

I crave the light they have given my mind's eye.

I am intoxicated with the love I have for these men who are indifferent to the desires of this world,

These men who gave up the opinions of a fleeting populace to gain what they could not lose once they stepped into eternity.

They have caressed my curiosity with their cravings for more.

I am in love with their love of wisdom.

It is not their knowledge that has caused them to steal into my heart but their understanding,

Their ability to search my core without ever having met me,

Their talent of telling me what constitutes who I am without touching my skin or gazing into the miry blackness of my eyes,

Their alluring posture as they turned their gaze upon things not of this world

And dreamt of the things of which dreams are made.

I am wholly lost in their teachings.

I knew something was not normal about this when I read the Phaedo,

When I read of the death of one of my beloved,

When I let the words depicting his final moments of life seep into me as his thoughts had done before.

I knew when he drank the hemlock I had let my heart become too much attached.

And when he died, I cried after shutting the pages.

I have a problem.

There is nothing natural about the sensation when I read a good--

Syllogism.

There is something odd about the way I feel alive when I read about the quest for--

Justice.

And there is something most certainly wrong when I desire nothing more than to sit across from these men and listen to the words that descend from their lips as they tell of the way they think life fits together.

It is these me who have entwined me in a story that feels so much larger than the hum drum rumbles of modern thought.

They are

Socrates

Plato

And Aristotle.

And I--

A silly girl with no sense of the normal--

Have lost my heart to their teachings in a beautifully, epic affair.