What do I love? Is it the curving edges of your lashes glistening against the reaching rays of a hungry sun. Or is it that blink, when you stop for a second’s quick think. Like receding waters- leaving the world with just enough time to brace for the impact of your words.

Is it the weak melting of your fingertips between the gaps in these keys faded over words you wrote for someone else’s song. Or is it that painful pang I love. That nagging fog for a dream that haunts as you turn half-conscious in your sleep.

What do I love? Is it the pieces of darkness you’ve nicknamed, heart. Like broken asteroids they float, liberated and purposed against the starlit canvas of your mind.

Is it that I love or is it the off key notes of a muted guitar, graying the temperature of the stories on your skin; quiet storms, where the good, bad and the painful play the Madhatter’s song in a raging symphony no one else can hear.

Love I do, but there is one of which I was never taught,  a love that cruises these fine lines that curve and bend in shapes they tell me cannot ever be loved. It’s in these folds where all ideas of you end, and I become.

Perhaps, that’s what I love the most.








Dark. She trembles in darkness. I look at her and she shoots through me-vibrations of songs, in frequencies I can never hear: dark over dark over dark, her blood rushes cold fire through these bones as I stand frozen. Enveloped. One.

She undoes the falsities of time I will never dare admit, for how could something moving forward turn back and shoot up from the core of the very floors I call home. And who would believe me.

I can taste the thunder blue notes of her silent song within the starving bars of my mouth,  where wandering lost words lay untouched and dying, holding unclear maps to fingers that never found the time to be free. What wonder holds the key.

Her temperature rises through me. Life, leaving, rotting, growing, their colors are all the same. I flip pages of questions that now fall like colorless kisses from the past: there is no meaning that truly lasts, but for the fortitude of desperate beliefs with their essence left in the things you leave behind, after your blurring chapter in time.

Empty blankets turn to dust as we lose touch, coupling with this endless lust for something more.Unnaked still, by the thundering shore. Never becoming more.

Yet she trembles with life. Forvermore.

Midnight Breathing 

Thoughts. At first innocent. Chid-like curiosity. Existential moments of what ifs. I drive the train as it choochoos out the tunnel only to abandon ship mid-trail.
The darkness battles with my failing light as I usher every ounce of hope to arrow through. Sliver. So thin and Shiney. Blue. Could it be strong enough to cut through?

Pierce. Tear. Rip. Unshamble. The pilgrim  in me is aging. Tired. Worn. The adult inside holds the child cupped within  yellow palms of shivering hands.

Blind. The temperature is blinding. Vacuum breeds vacuum and eats the ends of lights that exit out these wounds. 

Soon. Pulse quickens for a shore, an endless bowl of sea between the surviving and the dying. A little sea shore where truly I can live.

I forgive. This weak heart goes back and forth badgered by this fickle positivity. Me. Possibilities dwindle as the canvas levels and no one becomes me. 

Cheated. By lines on a hand I did not draw. Caught inside the fighting ring of fate separating from destiny,  citing irreconcilable differences.

Freewill meditates on energy. All is nothing. Figments or solipsis. Madness or virtues. 

I hunger nourishment. A kiss, from the universe. A gentle hug perhaps.

As I melt away in the exhaustion.  

Its Nothing


Ting. . . Ting. . .the bell beats itself into a ring that no one hears. It’s almost as if the air knows it’s the insignificant calling out of a child’s bicycle, there is nobody paying attention to this here. . .

Green, yellow, warm- dusk has a funny way of moving me. Put that together with the Sunday evening distant but not far-away sounds of the children at play and I am suddenly struck by a feeling of panic. It roots itself in my stomach and seeps into my being like the anxious exhale of a joint that’s promised to be a bad trip.

Old. There is something is about this feeling. It is blue. So gripping in its blue that melancholy changes its colors, green, yellow, warm poured down by a feeling of blue.

Blue was never meant to be a color.

The clothes chuckle in the evening balcony, hanging by the knee of the wall, hiding from the vain society I live in. Somehow the very clothes we all need and wear and must faithfully cover ourselves up in, are too shameful to air out. But who’s listening.

I rebel against the creeping orange, black, grey ghost of a feeling this dusk brings.

Yet another day meeting its maker in a mindless charade we can never truly know the purpose of. The whys, the hows and ultimates of existence all knead my empty stomach into dough and I sense a feeling like I want to vomit the air right out of me.

Yellow. A tiny piece of paper with notes I have folded and folded and kept “safe” a million times before. I cannot crumple it into the fire and I won’t sit down and look at it either.

Dreams. What sodomy imprinted in me this desire for more. Half knowing how well I fool myself, half hating it, I bite down another pep-talk and think about what deception truly means.

I am always better than I am right now, and I am always just as unwilling.

The curtain laughs a hearty one against my window and I think about the glow of this room on the outside.

Warm. Yellow. True.

Someone must wish they lived here.




Kisses. Awkward at first. And then. . . poetry. Your lips talk in languages I have always known but never dared whisper. Unlock me. 
Unlock these unspoken bars caged within the chastity of my mind.
Free me. 
Like an animal, in silence, pull me closer with your eyes, and unhinge this dullness- break into me.
Like the summer rain. Like the winter tide, like the curling of a wave between my lips, as I case them upon yours. 
Taste me.
Let my name pour through the atmosphere of our coupling that when our lips do part, you can still feel me. 

The essence of your soul concentrates into madding moments of unplanned sorcery. You have to be magic.
I can tell by the way our tongues paint secrets against each other that only we can uncover this mystery.

At first I hesitate until I let it take over me. love. monsters. madness. 

The difference is poetry.  



Dear you,

Before you left, I was sunshine. I was light and love and sparkles and dreams; before you left, I was more than just a name.

Now a ghost am I. A tired whisper disappearing even before it was made.

Before you left, I was energy. I was alcohol and cigarettes and revelry. Before you left, I was meaning.

Now just a word am I, unspelled yet, and unassembled.

Dear you. . . now I am desperation. A wordless stranger seeking conversations with the air.

See there’s a hole you left behind. This hole. . . So vast and yawning, gaping ever still, with a view within so breathtaking.

Inside are pieces. Little, tiny pieces of a life before you left. Inside are dreams, galaxies and galaxies of dreams, all walking in the silence. Inside there are the cosmos, quietly under play; and there, far from my reach, deeper, and deeper still, is you.

Dear you. . . these sand bags aren’t helping. Something’s got to give. Can you stop the flood gates and just teach me how to live?