There must always be a first flame - the initial kindling
The first twig to sing the song of burning
The summer dry oak tree origin of all subsequent ember
Call me ashdancer, smokeshaper
For I sing the tongue of spontaneous combustion
Unbridled and indiscriminate consumption
Your words are lightning to my August grass hill
And I hope to learn to love the purge of the burn
I hope to learn to love

If you asked me to describe how I know God answers prayers
I would point you in the direction of honeybees

Because nobody so unassuming, with so monumental an impact, can come from any source other than divine

For is it not the place of the bee to buzz by plants and people, taking pieces of each to the next?

I see the still pollinated goodbyes of every former flower in your honeybee helloes

And honey, if your hello is an answered prayer, consider me cross contaminated

It is not until your petals have gone without pollen that you appreciate the sweet nectar of their presence

Hello honeybee

Stay as long as you need, then perhaps a little longer

She adds contrast to my life
She can turn anxiety into ease,
Fear into comfort, anger into calm
She adds color to my cheeks just above my pale lips
My cold fingers melt as I trace her warm skin
And when I hold her close
She melts my cold heart
When I am in her arms
Time stops and I want to stay there forever

She is the perfect contrast
She balances out my disaster
with her perfection

I have an off-again, on-again relationship with permanence

Even so, I have been party to many pictures in my lifetime

Each thousand word tattoo, a spur of the moment snapshot, scrawled across my skin

Your thousand words looks a lot like wearing a red stuffed octopus named Richie on your head like a hat

The Cowboy and the Cephalopod both agreed this frame wasn't big enough for the both of them, so they agreed to compromise

I laugh imagining the world in which you are a marine biologist by day, and a hair stylist by night

I laugh imagining the world in which the words 'you' and 'permanent' are among the thousand on each hand

I like to play a game of tick tack toes in your too small snow shoes

You like to play a game where you pretend not to love it

I like to pretend like we dont know how to turn these couch cushions into Schrodinger's box

You and I together - at once both alive to each other and dead to the world

Snowflakes and eyelids both fall softly as we re-watch, for the third time, your favorite sitcom

Your fingers sign syllables with mine that we have a long season ahead of us

You stupid, stubborn boy
You thin lipped, thick skinned, too tall trouble maker
You brain broken record, record, record romantic
You can not live between the lines of her words

Just because vowels and vegetables both start with v, doesn't mean that she is healthy for you

Just because you know how to read her hieroglyphs, doesn't mean that they were meant for you

You can not chase the shape of her echoes into the person you want her to be, like some rosy cheeked run on given a pulse

A pulse, a tick, a drum, a beating

Self administered prescriptions, trying to find her commas in the pauses of others peoples punchlines

Let yourself cool off from the shade of the period that is her loving somebody else

Let yourself know that love is just a word, and twisting words into something beautiful is all you know that you are good at

Sanctuary
Looks a lot like four walls and a bed
Sleepless
Sounds a lot like get out of my head