I never thought it would be you.
You tossed crumpled maps over your shoulder
waiting for me to unglue my
eyes from the steady
compass.
You leapt from stone to stone and branch
to branch while I tiptoed across
the rocks careful not to
slip.
You filled every hour with chance and opened
your arms to uncertainty while I held
mine close in case the breath ran
out.
You thought it could be me.
You helped me play in the morning
light without looking over my
shoulder for the darkening
sky.
You gently led me to mountainous cliffs
with views that almost made
me forget I could
fall.
You drank my worry like fresh water
instead of the bitter poison
I thought was my
burden.
You tossed the map and I can't find the compass
and it couldn't be you but there
in the middle of your
palm lies my
north.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 5:44 PM UTC
People ask
about the fireworks,
the sparks, the shooting stars.
"Did you feel it?" They ask,
vaguely expectant, eyebrows falling
back to their polite place when you
shake your head.
Lips and saliva, you scoff.
Random tongues. It's not the Fourth of July.
You fall asleep amidst the self-talk
and dream of meteors.
Then one night you look up
from behind your smudged glasses
to find him
staring back, past your iris
and down your spine, grabbing
hold of something warm,
and lips cling to each other
with a strangely perfect
desperation
and it's not like fireworks
at all, but rushing water, crashing
against your skin as you
search for breath,
and when the current pulls
you to the edge
of the waterfall
you press tighter
and wait
to soar.
Jul 1, 2012
Jul 1, 2012 at 8:59 PM UTC
if you stand and close
your eyes you might feel
a chilly kiss brush across
your cheek and wet
your motionless lips
with yet unspoken sentences
you might hear the calm
of tomorrow's breath as she
whispers promises of
a certain sunrise
if you open your eyes
you might see the exquisite
chaos falling from a
triumphant sky
if you stretch out your
hands you just might
catch a moment of bliss
in your empty palm before
it softly lands on
the powdered earth.
Nov 7, 2011
Nov 7, 2011 at 9:07 PM UTC
I used to think it exquisite.
Some beautiful power
weaving expert, impeccable knots.
But precision does not
come so
easily
undone.
No. Only a mirage
of strength.
Tenuous,
fragile,
w a v e r i n g
at the slightest threat of indifference.
Find an anchor, then.
Wind it tightly
aroundandaround,
overandunder itself.
Let us grab hold
til our fingers go numb.
It cannot go slack.
Don't slip.
Please
don't let go
before I find my way
back
to you.
Nov 4, 2011
Nov 4, 2011 at 12:17 AM UTC
Sunlight floats across
the water in your eyes
you quickly blink to dry the landscape
but I already saw the first drops of rain
and you've never
been more beautiful.
Aug 9, 2011
Aug 9, 2011 at 4:46 PM UTC
Sometimes you talk in your sleep.
A startled shout or
burst
of laughter and I
stumble
out of my latest dream
and into your
drowsy dialogue,
eager
to catch a glimpse of these
nighttime companions but
they scatter
back to silence
the moment i turn my head.
Aug 7, 2011
Aug 7, 2011 at 10:05 PM UTC
jersey sheets cascaded off the
bed but we never felt the cold
beside you like the august sun
every touch a blaze of insight
foreign heat tiptoed through
your hands and into mine as our bodies
curled away from apprehension
and into the warmth of each other
every moment without your breath
a black hole opened in space till
my lips found yours and we were back
made of nothing but sensation
my stomach shuddered with jolts
of exquisite surprise as your quiet
fingertips brushed softly over
waves of untouched terrain
in the curve of your arms I found
a substitute for emptiness
a cure for quiet and lonely dreams
in the rise and fall of your chest
what we might have had if you stayed
now only the sheets drape my skin
as I shiver in your tracks and
wait for august to come again
Aug 7, 2011
Aug 7, 2011 at 3:15 PM UTC
We stand
staggered in a circle
gold-encrusted poles bolted
to the rotating floor beneath our tired
hooves. Tomato sunburned children scramble
onto throbbing ashen backs, clutching at us with
sticky and and sugar-stained fingers. The first strains
of music echo through our chiseled manes, eerie melodies
impossible to forget after the last children slides off the saddle.
We begin to move, slowly at first, then
turning,
spinning
whirling,
wind
rushing
across
our garish painted faces,
air smelling of syrupy sweat and roasted meat.
Jeering shouts of vendors and cackling shrieks of riders
penetrate our ringing ears with grating force.
Reds and yellows and blues bleed together,
spattering our spiraled vision with
dizzying palettes of primary hue.
Relentless ghost-like tunes,
around and around as
we rise and fall
rise and fall.
Aug 6, 2011
Aug 6, 2011 at 10:51 PM UTC
your hand lingers warm
when we wake to translucent sky
drinking morning like champagne
voiceless questions melt with the darkness
perhaps yesterday listened.
Aug 6, 2011
Aug 6, 2011 at 7:03 PM UTC
We prepare to push off, you and I, tightly
bundled against the chilly wind. You stop
to shake snow from your furry-lined shoes
(you should have brought boots), and my
lenses fog from our breath, the frames
askew. I climb in front, tentative, winding
my scarf once more across my face.
The sled tips as you squeeze behind,
feet sneaking through my arms and across
my lap. The plastic starts to move beneath
us and I'm not ready but we're going,
we're soaring, (I wish I could see your
expression), across the slippery cold,
and my breath is gone somewhere
in the drift and we're flying but
you're there and then the world stops
moving. I'm covered in white as I wipe
the wetness from my cheek and I hear
laughter so I turn to look at your smile.
It is then that my breath finds its way
back and I realize it's me who is laughing.
Aug 5, 2011
Aug 5, 2011 at 1:38 PM UTC