My god, punctuation is sexy.

I love a man who knows how to use his commas
and puts them in all the right places, oxford included.

And what's more of a turn-on than a man who is bold enough, 
confident enough, to use a full stop for emphasis?
Nothing.

Semicolons are sophisticated; knowing how to use them is
like tying a tie or drinking a martini.

(Be careful of too many parentheticals, though.
They can signal weakness.) 

Don't forget the exclamation point!
Have you noticed how phallic it is? 
Used just enough, it's super hot.

Ellipses are seductive, you sly fox, you.
When you use them to hint at the things not said,
I can read between the bubbles...

So text me, darling. 
Keep texting me until I'm a puddle of ink.

Mexican restaurant.
I drink a margarita,
My eyelids heavy.

I can't keep the dust
out of this place. 

Try as I might to wipe it away, 
it floats in while I am not looking

And collects
in all the neglected corners.

The good bottle of whiskey;

My dancing shoes and bicycle;

The box with the good pearls;

And the wedding album.

I wish I could have kept the dust
out of this place.

I would listen to music while you read this one,
something haunting and electric.
A soundtrack will add emotion. Try Brian Eno.

Or, you might consider a glass of wine.
This particular poem is enhanced by a good Bordeaux, 
although a Malbec will do. 
It will add a depth of meaning.

Maybe lie back and have someone else read it aloud to you
(with the music on, of course).
Then it will be romantic, if you want to be seduced.

You might want to read it to someone else--
on the train, for instance. A "hey listen to this one" kind of thing.
A shared moment. You have to make eye contact occasionally, though.
Or the words won't stick.

You could print it out and stick it on the fridge.
So when you go to get your morning milk,
You are reminded of why you woke up.
That can be very motivating.

I guess what I'm saying is that this poem is yours
to do with what you like.
You don't have to wonder what I was thinking when I wrote it,
Or puzzle out any thick metaphors.
That's just too much work sometimes, don't you think?

I wrote it so that you can feel what you like
without being manipulated.
A little gift, that's all.
A container
for your own meaning.

You're welcome.

Dear Future Self,
 
The next time
you reach for martini #3, 
remember the night 
you rode home drunk on the train
and threw up in your purse.

And Future Self, 
The next time
you have expectations, 
remember all the nights 
you waited alone,  
and the words that hung in your imagination,
longed for but never said.

Please Future Self, 
Eat your vegetables. 
Walk a lot, moisturize, 
and do all those things your parents and grandparents
told you to do but never did themselves.

Oh- and Future Self, one more thing:
The next time
you have the opportunity to take a chance--
to dance or not dance, love or not love, 
leap or not leap-- 
remember the saddest words in the English language are 
If only... 

And then boogie away,
open your heart, 
and leap with abandon into the unknown.

Do it for your Future Self.

Love, 

Your present self.

Love is not an economic trade
To budget out amongst the souls we meet;
There is no finite number to be made
Nor capital lost trading in the street.
 
A garden, rather, tended by our souls
Love grows, and spreads, and dies, and sprouts anew;
Organic crops to make our spirits whole
In infinite varieties and hues.
 
And every garden has its border walls,
Where different kinds of plants need thrive apart;
Where care is given to where the leaves may fall,
And vines cut back to not engulf the heart.
 
     But your love's roots reach deep and boughs reach high,
     Forever shelter from the burning sky.