To the husband to the wife.
Turn to them and say, you love them.
To the wife to the husband.
Turn to them and say, you love them.

Why?
Do it have to be an anniversary?
Or, even your birthday.

To a woman to her lover?
I'm speaking only of one.
Not multiple ones.
Tell your man, you adore them.

To the man to his love.
Tell her, of the many ways to adore them.

It been said words don't need to be spoken.
When the things you do, do it.
But words of expression says more.
Then many people think possible.

I'm calling all lovers to speak up.
And profess your feelings to your sweetheart.
It should be a law.
A requirement to speak it.
But then that would make it meaningless.

When you can speak it with truth.
Cause it's not hard to say, I love you.

When I was young and strong
I thought to myself,
That I would live long
But now that I am old and grey
I know that life is never here to stay.

When I was I young and strong
I found the most abused phrase to me
Was the “I love you”s which were said to me
So many said that phrase
But none ever really meant that to be

Now I am grey, old and know
It was just a lubricant in a rat race
Meaningless and self absorbed in its flow
Now I come across quite a few meaningless phrase
Which lips utter without meaning it now

Now I am grey, old and know
That there are many lips that utter
“Praise the lord” and “Thank you God” in a flow
Most People really don't mean it
And mouth it to just their greatness show

These are the most abused phrases these days
Which have no meaning and is just their preening
In spite of better means to address the Lord and his ways
It is their actions which have much more meaning
Than words that just show off how great they are

the spiders came,
and the blue and gold walls painted over.

I lost some weight,
I was asked about it at your wake,
but I felt like
I was
sleeping.

Cold he was,
and quickly he left
So I turned to cold cans of soup in the pantry.

Cold cans of soup
and
patting my dog

That was about it.

And sometimes the central heating would disturb the silence
and sometimes it would make me feel sick to my stomach

But I know one thing,
and that's
that
Happiness in suburban houses never lasts.

Sunshine, summer, parents, first loves

They are fantasies thought up in the grass.


I love you, he murmured
Why did she die? I pleaded.
The air was warm
like summer
but we lay in the dark.

Yes. And Forever.

We have not yet given ourselves a chance to miss each other.

These days. It smells like bliss.
These days the nights are so perfect they feel like pumpkin pie.
These days I am dumbstruck at the phantom in my bed.

Her voice is a paintbrush.
I will make this love my masterpiece.

I love her laugh.
Because it is the sound her smile makes.

She is a shining star. A heavenly body.
I am a mongrel dog, howling at her light.

Sometimes, just knowing
that he exists in the world is enough.
Other times, it just reminds me
of how close he is yet so far.
Most of the time, it doesn’t matter
because I love him all the same.

Even now, as we lie here, heartbeats like a metronome for the coming storm, I write songs in my head for you. And though my voice will never sing them, they are the soundtrack of your kiss. Each record scratch on my heart like a pressed vinyl love letter. Shaping my sinking chest into drum skins that my pulse beats against.

If I were covered in magic dust, you would be my happy thought. And all my childish notions of what it means to be romantic would be written down the sides of Chianti bottles in melted wax, like an oak. And in that bottle we would keep our hungry mouths.

And still I find my heart adrift. Ripped sails and ropes leading skyward like veins. Split and tattered and stitched haphazardly together, waiting for the lightning to strike twice and bring it to life. My throat a bricked flue, leading to an open mouth, spitting smoke from the torches my heart fears but always seems to carry.

And I stretch my spine skyward. Trying to wedge my head back into the clouds but manage only to cast the shadow of an orchid that has begun to lose its color and wilt at the edges of its wingspan. Coming to terms with the idea that it may never be picked. Not even its petals, even numbered like a deck stacked against it that it might lose in a game of being loved and loved not.

We want for a little more time. Arm wrestling clock hands into submission with god like fury. Ticking tongues to dampen the prophecy of false mediums. We practice fighting so we may fight for each other. Fight for the greener grass on the other side of the pavement walls we draw our chalk hearts on.

The clock tower is a lighthouse. The lighthouse is a windmill. The windmill is a giant. The stories never end.

Even now as we lie here, heartbeats like a metronome for the coming storm, I write bed time stories in my head for you.