Dear Diary,

I don’t think of myself as poet, but sometimes prose doesn’t fit the words the right way, like trying to solve a crossword with puzzle pieces.

And yet, and yet–the words still want to be said, the lines still want to be read. 


If I were…

If I were an optimist, I would hope for the best. Tomorrow.

If I were a pessimist, I would give up and go home. Today.

If I were a Leo, I would blame my extraversion experience for saying all the wrong things aloud, while secretly being proud of myself for doing so.

If I were a Virgo, I would align the table settings neatly and fold all of our problems into perfect squares that fit in the pantry closet, without saying a word.

If I were a gypsy, I would love you but let you go, to be just you and then me. Free.

If I were a homebody I’d clean all the clocks telling time while waiting for you to come home. Someday.


If, if, if,

A thousand variations

Perhaps there were lives

Before this one

The same choices spread

Between us

The same failings

Making us impossible.

If, if, if.


But I am only me

And we are only we

For today

While tomorrow is still in doubt

And yesterday’s grief

Still stains the sheets

If, if, if–

–if, only.