I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm,
your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,
yes, many loved before us, I know that we are not new,
in city and in forest they smiled like me and you,
but now it's come to distances and both of us must try,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.
I'm not looking for another as I wander in my time,
walk me to the corner, our steps will always rhyme
you know my love goes with you as your love stays with me,
it's just the way it changes, like the shoreline and the sea,

but let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't
untie,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.
I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm,
your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,
yes many loved before us, I know that we are not new,
in city and in forest they smiled like me and you,
but let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't
untie,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.

Pity poison, pity party,
pity is pretty *******
at your Pompadour proposition,
your parcel proposal!
O, a cardboard box,
the symbol of the distance crossed
and darker shadows to bright love lost.
What a world of merriment their melody foretells
as you shake them like little silver bells.
Go to hell.
Car chase scenes excite you; sit tight, you,
as your flight from fight reunites you with
the boy who never knew
what you are.
You are jelly in a jam, so your ham-****** attitude
leads the lamb of love to slaughter;
the s leads laughter on, standing for *** (check male or female),
stimulation, stimulant, squabble, ****, ****, sext--
a wrecked relationship sinking, sinking,
and being nearer, my ******* God, to thee
makes me sick between my bones
but the iceberg of your persistence has to melt,
even with a bit of red paint.
Your dainty hopes that you could go
two for two with hearts and minds
not only disgust, but your lust broke my trust
and I must, must, must ring the bells.
Class dismissed. I hope you've learned.

Your legs are long as moments
spent in your company.
Your hair is longer than promises
I made to you in the
dead of night that I
would not be dead at night.
You are a painting
looking into a mirror
and failing to appreciate the work of art
as a reflection.
You complain that your
lips are warm and your hands are cold
but I tell you that time heals
all transgressions.
There's a dreamer in your ear and a
lover in your eye and a writer in your heart and a speaker in your neck and a leader in your heart and a Good Samaritan in your gut and a winner in your legs and a teddy bear in your hand.
Conversations with you are the scenic route.
Kindness from you is a gift
for the present and a memory
for the future you try to ensure.
I owe you.

Why are you so
posed in repose,
your toes curled
into baby fists?
You've made your lists,
hissed at boys who
endured the fallout
of your failure
to say hello.
You kissed the girls instead.
And I don't blame you,
nor will I shame you,
tame you, but I will shout
your name at oblivion,
hoping it will recant you.

Some poems
just bend their ends
and pose a question
that has no answer,
save for hearts clicked
and minds dragged.

If you don't mind,
brunette in row nine
and two quarters,
could you please stop asking why I'm sitting in?
Your eyes have explored me,
hands twisting into chemical equations
and inky nail polish. Ursula.
You're a chartist, a mapmaker, a
heartbreaker of weaker things than
girls and boys and dogs.
Your loafers dance across the
ugly golden tiles like impatient clock hands.
Your bare arms move to the drumbeat of your note taking,
your seduction salvation-- your eyes-- looking at me from prison window glasses and wondering why I'm so
free as to slide onto a back lab table
and silently, scientifically
observe a play playing out
in which you are merely an extra
and this class
is a sentencing hearing.

Maybe it was fate in the threads of that
skirt as short as temper and temperance
that ended the ellipsis breathing.
A dancer needs an answer
on life enhancers, dear romancer.
Your smile was more than good enough.
I drank of it, the cup of Christ that turned
my blood into whining moments of
insecurity.
Call security, you say, making the call on
what I am because I am transparent,
transdimensional, traversing the bridge
of your nose with my high-risk eyes.
You say that I am, and they cry.
As your hands ticked at your clock-click keyboard,
I waited, passed the time wondering the
difference between naive and navel.
Harm came like rain in winter, the words
of Zephyrus slipping from between those
amber lips, lithe on naked fingertips.
You take the names of gods in vain,
into your veins, let them convert only
the white blood cells. You'd crucify
me for vanity.
You accuse the recluse of abuse,
and it suits you, tailored because
hatred sized you up the moment you met.
The orchestra disbanded, the buds of May
have yet to burst, yet to blossom like you
say you always will,
but the spring in your step when
you walk away from the last word
tells me more than the chirping birds
nesting in your hair.
You remind me of Paris
on the walls of Troy,
thief of hearts and fool indeed.
Bringer of fire, brander of hell,
but only because you were already the
Tartarus Employee of the Month and
enjoying Elysium.
This is the
beautiful mystery
undone as her clothes and
naked as the day Rosemary Matron gave her
to the world.
This is the beautiful mystery
returned to voids as tangled as her hair,
the nonspace between the curls hiding
secrets and conviction.
This is the beautiful mystery
concluded, all the movements of
her symphonic body no longer to allure.
This is the beautiful mystery
answered, the riddle of the Sphinx
leaping from the pillar, a killer
not quite so strong as her eyes.
This is the beautiful mystery
laid to rest, buried alive in a life discarded.
This is good-bye.