your life is not a stone;
it is clay.
you are a sculptor,
and you won’t be stuck here forever.

you are the first drop of rain
after a drought,
the first blooming flower of spring.
you are a lover’s first kiss,
the feeling of shaky fingers intertwining.
you are the first tear of someone’s first broken heart,
yet you are the glue that puts it back together.

you are the warm gratitude of the thought that we are there in this planet at the same time.

i am so depressed
i can’t breathe.
i lightly trace your lips with my finger,
then intertwine mine with yours,
and ask how long it’s been
since i touched you in that way.

you can’t remember.

keep certain music closer to you
than any person,
and know that you’re
entirely worthy
of using that music.

stay, king.
stay king.

there was a time
i used to think
a Persian sunset flushing pink
was beautiful-
now i prefer
say an old marsh
with ruffled fur and
stranded branches,
bleached and queer,
like antlers of some
mythic deer.

everything grows,
no bad thing is forever.

you are two.
you are both warm & cold.
Bright nostalgia for a dark night.
you are dysfunction, like a numb limb;
you are alone but
still ecompassing
what it means to be human.