I see you in my dreams
In vacation home rentals, 
over the garden wall, in the soft paleness of my underarm, the freckles traced into constellations

I pull open empty closets that smell of mothballs and salt. I look for white space, for that empty feeling life gives me, for the sweetness of life on my tongue. All the while, time passes me by, aging my face.

I could cry because the sky is so blue
For my mortal soul is just a fractal in this lonely universe!
For I have no direction, other than that of my heart.

You feel like
A ghastly mist, crawling up my toes
Touching frozen ground as you wrap
The soles of my feet in pasty white.

You feel like
Wet hair seeping through every thread
Of a pillowcase where you rest your head
Cold, warm, cold, warm—uncomfortable.

You feel like
Sore eyes from screens too bright
As you type in bold, black thoughts
A manifesto of the conflicts within.

You feel like
A room with no light, air, and sounds
Stagnancy echoing—the streaks, the blowing, the ringing
Were all dampened, washed out, unheard of.

You feel like
The sudden flash of blindness in the sky
Overlapping the deepest violets with such crisp tear
And they, too, tear as well.

You feel like
An intrusive intrusion of an intruder
An interlude to all the things you've done
An intermission to the tango that has just begun.

You feel like
A stale yet warm yet ugly yet comforting embrace
I wrap around you just to seep in every inch
Of what only you could offer.

You feel like
The last beginning of the endgame
The enshrouding entrance of what is to come
The naked piece of the puzzle
I have yet to grasp fully

You feel like
Bitter goodbyes
Unfiltered eyes
And crimson skies.

Life has always been about the decaying permutation of possibility.

When you are young, the infinite paths sing with endless potentials.

These branches are primed with the indifferent hands of time.

Choice still exist, as it always has, yet the narrowing is haunting.

It is that inevitability is that hangs around in ominous fog.

Approaching that finality is a journey of bittersweet grace.

Books are fuel to the imagination.

Works of fiction pour into my mind,
hours at a time.

I feel the power rise,
as I climb through expositions.

Looking down,
I see the world in the palm of my hand.

Looking up,
I see my face amongst the clouds.

On this high I craft my own words,
some spoken and others in ink.

And as I fall,
I ponder the time until my return.

Love is a fiction being written in the moment and read in the past,
and it only lasts for as long as both parties involved believe it to be true.

Life paints it's story
in broad brush strokes of light.
Sun rays, incandescent bulbs.
Fire.
I know colors
are just light.

While I slept,
you went away,
and brilliant light
filled the place
where you used
to play.