I Know How

I know how to be second

I know how to be put aside for later

I know how to be the once in a while

I don't know how to be fifth 

I don't know how to be your sometimes

I don't know how to mean so little

Because you promised so much

Simple Dreams

My dreams are simple:

Doing absolutely nothing. 

Complicated by adding: 

With you.

Through the Glass

Through the glass, 

No one knows if it's rain

Or my silent tears

Alone with You

You're here with me,

Yet I'm all alone.

Somewhere deep inside me,

Where you used to long to be,

There is only a hollow.

There are no words to fill it,

No long, lingering kisses.

The promise of love came and went.

You taught me all I know,

I am what you always wanted. 

If only you were who you promised.

Without You

I find that I know I can be without you, 

I just don’t want to be

It ends

And so it ends,

Just as it began:

With more love 

With more faith

With more hope

With less you

Kisses

I think kissing is one of those things like snowflakes. No two kisses are the same. You and I cannot kiss each other the same way you kiss someone else or the way I kiss someone else. Each set of lips and the love and desire behind them makes each kiss unique. 

Temptation

"Why are you so delicious?" 

"Because, like a sweet, juicy apple, I was made to tempt you"

Fire

Your palms on my cheeks

Your fingers tangled in my hair

Fire on our lips

And love in our hearts 

It's my birthday

If I were given a thousand wishes
Each one would be the same:
I'd wish for you, over and over again

Happy Birthday

I blow out the candles

And make a wish.

When I open my eyes, 

Yours meet mine and you smile. 

My heart soars.

It came true

Beautiful

It's not about my face.
Or his.
It's the way someone who loves you Looks at you, what they see.
That despite all the imperfections and flaws,
They see beauty.
It's what someone else finds in you,
What they see as beautiful,
That you never thought of.

Rain

It rains down on me,
The silence.
It pours down on me,
The loneliness.
I am soaked to the bone,
But there is not enough warmth
To dry away the lack of you.

You

Unable to ask,
The silence consumes me.
Not knowing the truth,
The lies destroy me.
Being alone, surrounded by people,
The images in my mind run circles
But all I see is you.

Surrounded

Surrounded by the truth,
I am completely alone.
In a room full of lies,
I find comfort and solace.
My friend has become my enemy
And my enemy, my friend.

Words

You are mine, I yours,
Even If only as words,
Through them, I feel you

Can I unwish that...

Have you ever been in love? Have you ever really just loved someone so much that your heart breaks because you aren't with them? And in the end, even that won't be enough. As human beings, we are never content with what we have. We always want something else, something more. And when we get it, we are almost always disappointed to realize it didn't live up to our expectations.

Have you ever been in love? Have you ever loved someone so much that your heart breaks even though you are with them? Because in the end, nothing is ever enough.

We have become such selfish, greedy people, with a sense of entitlement. Me, me, me. It's always about what I want or need, but we never stop to think about how much the other person is giving. Why can we not simply accept that if we truly believe someone's love for us, then we should also believe that they are giving us everything they can. Being only human is possibly the most difficult task we are given. To not long for more, to not dream for better, to not hope for it all. Look around and see all that you have, know that it is more than you deserve, and be grateful for each ounce of it: each ounce of love, joy, pain, hate, sadness, loss, and gain.

Impossible

Is it possible that only I know the scent of us
A perfume of love and need and desire and greed
Is it possible that only I know the glow of us
A sheen of lust and hope and joy and peace
Is it possible that only I know the ache of us
A breaking of joining and losing and separating and becoming one

Ours

But I am not yours
And you are not mine
And those small luxuries,
They are not ours

Goodbye

I was not the kind
Who could survive goodbye
The remains of my heart
Could not take the pain
There was simply not enough left
And so I too crumpled
Torn to pieces too small to survive
And the remains of me
Are no longer enough

On being a woman

I'm a woman. We're ridiculous and petty and temperamental and emotional and bitchy and need more love and attention than can ever be given

Words

There is something about seeing the words in print.
They are irrefutable, true, can't be taken back.
They belong to me once my eyes take them in.
My heart and soul swallow them whole, take them over.
They are mine.

This kiss

The thrill
The simplicity
The joy
The love
Of one, single, soft, gentle kiss.
On the forehead.

The end

Because once we come to the end
The only thing that matters
Is that we got there together

Broken hearted

My heart breaks
Torn and crumpled
Limp on the ground
Broken promises
The truth was always there

Lay Me Down in a Bed of Roses

Usually what I read inspires what I write. These days it seems like there is a lot of smut. You know, the trashy, paper-back, dime store novels that desperate housewives have always been stereotyped as reading. Being that I am indeed a housewife, not desperate yet, I thought I would join the multitudes and see what the fuss was all about.

Well, talk about a bad idea. While I can see the appeal in Christian Grey, I did not enjoy reading about his fifty shades. It was a bit much. At times I thought the descriptions were actually meant to be tutorials because they were so detailed. But I muddled through (alright muddled may not be the precise word for what I did) and only made it through books one and two. I was exhausted from simply reading about their incessant extracurricular activities. However, it did open up a new genre for me. I tend to insert the trashy, paper-back, dime store novels in between my more serious reads in order to help reach my reading goal for the year (let's face it, they require little thought and are fast reads) and to lighten the mood after some of the heavier topics in other books I read. And thus, I was inspired to write my own, albeit not so smutty, Budoir scene. Enjoy!

She lay face down on the soft, white sheets and felt the cold air brushing across her bare skin. With her eyes closed she heard the delicate sound of his feet moving slowly across the floor and towards her. There was another sound she didn't recognize, and then the feel of something silky cascading down her back. She smiled to herself as the feeling created a thousand new sensations to be born along her body. In the gentlest, most subtle way, she felt a feather trailing up her thigh and continuing up her back where it circled at the base of her neck leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. She didn't flinch or make a sound. She concentrated on the sensation of the line being drawn along her body, on the weight and warmth of his body lying to her left on the king sized bed, on his breathing which was even and measured. He continued to draw her form, ever so gently, as if doing his best to avoid leaving a mark. The feeling soothed her, left her mind misty and hazy. In her dreamy state, she turned her head to look at him. Their eyes met and a smile broke across his face. How she loved this man! She had never felt this way about anyone in her life, and she knew without a doubt that she never would again. Without words, his eyes told her in perfectly composed sonnets how he felt about her. His hand still moved up and down her body and she was surprised to see the red rose petals scattered all over the white sheets, and the one, perfectly formed petal in his hand making it's way down to the base of her spine. His lips met hers and the charge that was felt between them only urged her on. She smiled at him, willing him to know how she felt with the look in her eyes alone. He made love to her on a bed of roses, and that would be theirs alone. 

In the pew next to mine

There is nothing quite like the elegance of my mother's friends. It is unparalleled.

I recently attended a funeral mass for the sister of one of my mother's friends. These women are mostly in their seventies. Not one of them looks it. They are not all pinned and tucked. They are not all stitched and stuck. They are simply elegant; women from an era that no longer exists or is even remembered by this generation.

My mother came from Cuba in 1960. She was an adult by then, and had grown up surrounded by wealth and luxury, spending her time at the Havana Yacht Club and having her photo printed in the papers after every social event. This is the life she was born into. Even after moving to Miami, she remained friends with the same girls she had grown up with. Theirs is a lifelong friendship, one that continues to this day despite her passing 20 years ago.

I will never forget watching them all as I grew up. I dreamt of one day being old enough to wear my mother's clothing; her shoes. My goodness how I loved her shoes! High heels, brilliant colors, beautiful patterns... The accessories were just as impressive. I will never forget a very large, gold plated buckle in the shape of a hair bow that my mother attached to a black patent leather belt. It was stunning, and everyone loved it. She was always well dressed, even in jeans and a T-shirt. It wasn't that they were designer jeans, it was that she was elegance personified. She carried herself in such a way that a Hanes T-shirt looked like it had been bought at Neiman Marcus. It wasn't the clothes, it was that she made the clothes what it was.

So on this cold January morning in Miami, I sat in a church in Key Biscayne, and when I looked to my left at a pew full of women, I thought "My God, there sits my childhood, beautifully sculpted and preserved." They still looked as beautiful and put together as they did when they traveled together to Paris in the 1950's, as elegant and regal as they did while I was growing up in the 1980's, and today, in 2013, in their seventies, they are stunning.

It is impossible to explain what makes them so elegant. It is in the way they stand, the way they walk, the way they hold their purses. It is in the perfectly silky, blow-dried hair (most of them are still highlighted blondes, though, the ones who have grayed, have done so flawlessly), the always manicured nails. Their husbands, all in blue sports coats and striped shirts, initials embroidered on their pockets, all with the same hairstyle they had at sixteen, and perfectly polished loafers. These friends of my mothers are a work of art. And they make me feel like I am home every time I am in their company.

It is a shame that this elegance no longer impresses. I am still drawn to the style of dress my mother would have loved to see me in, but it is simply more difficult to find. My daughter will, unfortunately, never see her grandmother steal the spotlight at every party and therefore will never strive to be like her. Instead she emulates the Disney Channel stars who pair patterns with stripes, metallics with neon, and high-tops with dresses. She will never know hear the echo of my mother's laughter in a room full of admirers, or the soft and distinctive chiming of my mother's bracelets as she told stories of her adventures. She will never know the joy of my mother's love, the selflessness with which she gave her life for those she loved. She will never grow up to look into the pew next to her and see her childhood presented in silky hair, chiffon blouses, and soft perfumes. It will be lost, all of it, when my mother's friends join her some day. I only hope they will leave a little of it behind for my daughter to find and make her own.