In just one breath
You speak words I thought I'd never hear
Just one breath
One drunken breath
Those three little words that should mean the most

You might not remember saying them
But you did, and I did too
And everyday I cling to those words
Those intoxicating words
As I start to question, like I always do

I replay those words over in my head
As we grow further and further apart
As we start to avoid saying those words again
It makes me wonder
If we ever meant them

And I write
I furiously scribble words on paper
Words of emotion, frustration, and anger
Anger with you
Anger with myself

The words I write, they liberate
They make me feel
The written word creates a world of emotion
That spoken word never could
I live vicariously on pen and paper

As I sit cold,
And silent
Hanging on those last words.

Bruised and broken
Lost and confused
Painful memories
Loved yet misused

Kicked to the curb
Pushed aside
Pulled by the hair
No one who cares

A life lived in pain
Running away
Alone into the forest
Suicide in Pouring Rain.

She is a tress of hair out of place,
combed in slow sweeps from my forehead.
I thought her an enigma to perchance unravel
by the press of well-paired lips
or by a mind besotted with moon glow
and Grenache wine;
one wicked with wisdom.

Saccharine words stirred into woody coffee,
I, Whitman, imagine her
the chill of Robert Frost
clung like sugar grains to my Leaves of Grass.

Almandine eyes of the nine Mousai
revved up by unbridled inventiveness…
I twinge too much to hold it inside,
she triumphs beyond the rim of her vessel,
so our ache and exultation
steal past the musing sentinel of apprehension;
and leap from once dormant imagination
into spirit shadows and splendid motifs.

She is a stranger to all,
but to those whom she whispers as lover.
We, two strangers of sun and moon,
curl nubile into night
to take our nuptials at dawn.

One hundred million miles and
one earth between us;
now bound as one, we pull the tides
into an unexpected tempest in my heart;
a tender act of indiscretion
undoing a tame, near tepid, bearing.

Thus muse and artist
feast upon the provender of providence
and all delectable in between them.