For if I told you that I love you
Anywhere but my poetry
It would give you the power
To walk away.
So for now I will write
'Til the pen falls from my hand.
Never not loving you
And never not denying it.

- p. winter

Empty.
That's what I feel these days.
Not even sad, just empty.
I'm missing you.
Everyday seems like a life time.
I now see what the appeal of cigarettes and alcohol give.
Something to fill this swirling black hole of what used to be love for a girl.
Now it's empty.
I don't even find the company of ladies amusing anymore.
I only want you.

you know the look
the look
when you feel eyes on the side of your face
but you're not completely sure
so you turn
instantly catching them
looking
their addictive
ice blue eyes
staring
and then quickly they're gone
looking somewhere else
like the floor or  
out the window or
pretending to be deep in thought
but
you know that they've been looking
because you've caught them twice before

boys with big hands to hold me or a guitar.
to reach around my waist or to caress the keys of a piano.
quiet, soft spoken deep voiced boys with a celestial moan saved in their chest
and the warmest timbre when they say my name.
a boy with an ear to my chest and a hand on my thigh to tap the beat of my heart on chilly summer afternoons.
a boy like mine

His new Blue Suit

He was, at home, most comfortable
in collared shirt and jeans.
Just not the sort to put on airs
Or fancy dress, it seems.
In his later years, especially,
It seemed style had passed him by.
So his new blue suit gave me a start
With the new Red power tie.
The haberdasher had done him proud,
But he wasn’t that sort of man
Still, given the occasion
I knew he’d understand
I asked a moment at the end
Just before the lid was closed
To memorize the face I loved
Lying there is his new clothes.

I hope
at least one versions of you
will fall for
one versions of me.

Uphill grinning
spinning webbed-breaths under
Spring's spilling through
rows of roses, tied behind
vines that could rip anyone red
are all the
quiet notes about pretty

& what a Sunday for sailing
blossoms through drying hair and
fickle feelings about an old poem
on a blanket, how fitting

but i'm trying;
i still find rhymes under
fir trees and still get
tired from laughing

i still ask why without crying
denying only while smiling.
this is 29 in a wine glass

stretching the afternoon like my
legs in the morning
pouring out yesterday's moaning
& sure as every bird i'll be
a blinking throat
counting her money

but for now i'm just
two hands
taking an orange home
for it's honey

You don’t know him like I do,
He has night terrors like he’s been in war,
He doesn’t trust himself when he drinks alone,
He fears he will turnout like his father,

You don’t know him like I do,
When he’s happy you can’t help but smile,
When he’s grumpy he has the most adorable nose crinkle,
When he’s sad he won’t let it show,

You don’t know him like I do,
There are doors locked within his eyes,
He fears failing everyone,
Loving people is hard for him because people leave,

You don’t know him like I do you never really will,
I hope you figure out that he loves back rubs as he falls asleep,
Or that getting him a gatorade is like a peace offering,
Never forget to let him know that you’re home safe.

You may think that you know it all,
And I really hope you do,
But a love like mine and his doesn’t come around but once in a lifetime.

I was his once in a lifetime,
So to who ever who loves him next,
I am a tough act to follow but I truly do wish you luck,
Please take care of him and keep building him up.
He deserves the world, make sure you give it to him.

But you will never know him the way I do, no one will.