Parking Lot Palm Reading
This is your life line.
 
It is long, though you can’t seem to picture it. From a young age, you were convinced you would die at a young age. The thought of fragile bones and silver hair turns your stomach sour. You have always been a seeker of wisdom but never willing to give it your years. Always the grandson and never grandfather—old soul, chasing youth.
 
This is your love line.
 
It’s there, I promise. Starting strong at your mother’s cord. Thinner now but growing later. This branch here is your first lover. You still feel the pain of the breaking, the retreat back to trunk and roots and ever-firm ground. Can you recall the exact moment you convinced yourself that tears didn’t complement the shape of your cheekbones? If only you knew how many of our hands are scarred with broken branches that just couldn’t hold up the weight of our hearts.
 
This here is your head line.
 
You seem to have a million good ideas that you’ve convinced yourself aren’t worth the ten bucks you paid for last night’s 12-pack . To be quite honest, most of them aren’t. But there’s that one that lives near your nape on the right side that could be the one if you’d just risk it. Shit, that one is worth a lot more than the hot air of your father’s appraisal. You lie awake at night as its potential cuts deep into your flesh. Do not let it whittle away at you.
 
And this one is your fate line.
 
Why do you run from this life you have made for yourself? Why can’t you acknowledge the worth to be found in its humble imperfection. The ceiling of your studio apartment leaks when the rains get rough. You tell your mother about it on the phone. She asks why you don’t get it fixed or tell the landlord and you are ashamed to tell her that fixing it would bring you somewhere too close to too-good-to-be-true and what the fuck did you do to deserve that? So you put out a bucket and let the dripping be your lullaby. You’ve written lyrics. They go:
 
“Trading your good for the chance to be better
Is more of a gamble than I think it should be.
But there’s got to be something else other than this thing
Cuz that’s what they all say on morning TV…”

-L.V.Morton

I promise, I am listening
She says:
“You know you’re pretty pretty, right?”

I try not to let her two cents fall to the floor.

It frustrates her
that I can’t seem to take the compliments she hands to me. They
slip through my fingers
with a nervous laugh. When I bend to pick them up
I find them too heavy to carry.  She takes them from the floor,
as if they weigh a cloud and a breeze,
and wraps them around me
like a favorite sweater.

She says:
​“You deserve sweet kisses and long hugs. Everyone does.”

I tell her about how bad I am at hugging. That I never know
where to place my arms and always squeeze too tightly.

What if I hold on for too long?
​
She tells me:
“There is no such thing.”

I’m working on believing her.

She says:
“Don’t waste your time kissing boys with no lips. 
Don’t waste your loving on people who won’t say it back.”

Says:
“I hope that one day the compliments will be easier to carry and, on that day,
you wear them like a crown. 
If you want,
I’ll help you hold them until you’re ready.”

-L.V. Morton

In all the stress and hustle of the last few weeks of life, I nearly forgot that one of my favorite times of the year is upon us: National Poetry Month. I usually try to challenge myself to write at least one poem every day during this season but, due to the loops that my life has been tossed through recently, I choose to, instead, focus on a project with less deadlines but more heart. 

Over the past few months, I've been writing poems "after" people. Some read more like letters to friends and others read like confessions. I like to believe that our stories of relationships can be relatable and personal at the same time. To save postage during this time, here is the first of a series of poems/open letters I've written and will write about the people in my life and the ones who have left me along the way. Written about a year ago, here is the first selection from i hope you never realize this one is about you.

​Life has eaten its way between us.
This message has been overdue
since the beginning of time.

I’m jealous of the space between you and me
because it is that much closer to you
than I’ll ever be.

I ask for your forgiveness
and your remembrance,
though I fear I don’t deserve either.

I know the dull ache 
of a sprained memory
and the sharp pain of being forgotten.

So, if this comes as a surprise to you,
my friend,
I hope it is a happy one.

-L.V. Morton