The end was quick and bitter.
Slow and sweet was the time between us,
slow and sweet were the nights
when my hands did not touch one another in despair but in the love
of your body which came
between them.

And when I entered into you
it seemed then that great happiness
could be measured with precision
of sharp pain.  Quick and bitter.

Slow and sweet were the nights.
Now is bitter and grinding as sand—
"Let's be sensible" and similar curses.

And as we stray further from love
we multiply the words,
words and sentences so long and orderly.
Had we remained together
we could have become a silence.

A caterpillar,
this deep in fall--
    still not a butterfly.

Slow it down
breathe me in,
deeply.
Eyes closed,
skin touching,
slowly stirring,
heat rising.

Watch me want you,
feel me need you,
let tender touches bring thunder
as deep kisses bring rain.

Let your slow hands
feather-light, stone strong
trace shivers
down my supple spine,
as clustered kisses please.

Let our bodies meet
with the grace of angels
as sainted flesh
slowly, silently, succumbs
to sacred sensation
and time silently slips away.

The literature is in the leaves.
In my reading there are red spots
regardless of the page I choose.

Those with paint
of other colors
ripped me or are broken.

Look at them down the river,
made boats that do not float.

But I trust.
I trust in that child
that will find my Santa María.

And the day that I see him
being the captain and author
who scores down the chronicles of what will happen.

A text from a friend:* "When you die, will it matter whether you loved or hated? When the world does not exist, will it matter whether you lived a good life or sliced open your throat at fifteen?"

My friends all love philosophy
So forgive me if this seems a monstrosity
To say that the constant cut you feel
Is a wound that you can heal

(let me explain)

When you stab a knife into your heart
Tearing your own world apart
Because you can't bear that every day
You mean nothing to those worlds away

You will bleed out on the floor or sand
Gun or knife in your own hand
Hurt so much more than you thought you would
Then you're gone, darling, gone for good

(bear with me here)

Someone will find you, family or friend
Because if you're missing, who else would they send?
And I *promise you to the end of their days
They will walk around with an empty haze
Over their heart and mind and body and soul
Never forgiving themselves, always so cold
For not talking you out of it, for being too late,
And darling, let's get one thing straight

(Only you could every forgive them, and you're gone, aren't you?)

And pardon me if this sounds strange,
But there's one thing more that'll never change
A ghost of you will always be
In everything they touch, everything they see
Because those who loved you once and love you still
Have known you then and always will
And that little ghost will stab them in the heart
Whether they're near or far apart

(Who ever thought you could be haunted by a memory?)

And as for the love and of course, the hate
Let me take a moment to calculate
Because by the (very) young age of just fifteen
It is impossible, unheard of, completely unseen
For you to not have saved one life
Helped heal someone, brought them out of strife

(And you're so young. What about when you're thirty? Sixty? Ninety?)

And of course, there's that one person out there
That special someone, the one who infinitely cares
Let me ask this, did you ever think
That by killing yourself, in just a blink
You're taking that joy, happiness, and love
Only you could give or even dream of
Past, present, and future, you are the only one
Who could love like that and their heart won

(They will only ever have the chance to be content. Content is not the same as happy.)

So to my friends who love philosophy
Forgive me if this seems a monstrosity
But we aren't meant to matter to the universe itself
Humans are meant to matter to someone else
We mean so much more in all the little ways
Who cares if our name becomes a holiday?

(You are made up of little bits and pieces that make life worth living. Don't ever tell me that you don't matter.)