Heartbreak, Pain, People, Regret, Truth


You are my once.
The one time I
had someone
who understood
inside me.
When I said
that sent others
running, hiding
behind their fears
their need
to control
to change me
into something
they could stand
could understand
you said
you loved it,
loved that part
of me.
I love that
you’re a mystic.
I love that
you read.
I love that
you write poetry.
I love that
you’re a good mother.
I love that
you’re smart.
I love that
you speak truth
to power.
I love that
band you love, too.
I love that
you’re that
sexy shape
and squeezable size.
I love
all your names.
I thought
all that love
meant loving me.
And nothing happens
more than once.


2 thoughts on “Once”

  1. At least nothing worth living for happens more than once. Maybe that’s what makes living worth-living-for (to find out what the next “once,” that never was before, will be). Thanks for the poem. The message I received may not have been the one you sent, but that’s the beauty of poetry. It can be whatever we need it to be when we most need it to be THAT.

    1. I like your take on it – it is very true that each “once” is in itself unique and beautiful. And yes, there have been others that have been unique experiences, certainly (see all my “twin flame” poetry). You’re absolutely right and thanks for giving me a new take on my own work.

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