how better
to spend the day while
she sleeps peacefully
but listening to music

the Beatles
in particularly.
Catching a glimpse
occasionally

of her beautiful
peacefulness
wondering
does she dream of me

when I hear
Good Day Sunshine
I ache

to wake her up

For a few months time
I kept a poetry notebook
Always by my side.

When I would write about
Something happy and positive
It would be written on the next page from the front of my notebook.

When I would write about
Something sad and somber or negative
I would write it on the next page from the back of my notebook.

It almost seemed like a competition then
Which would fill up my pages first?
Joy or sorrow?

Now and then I still take that notebook
Thumb it open
And examine its pages.

The only difference is
That now my happiness
Is written on my face
In the form of a smile
And you are the author
Who placed it there.

tonight is strange.
you see,
i slept today
at a friend's house.
but now, cannot
sleep.

and when i say "slept"
i mean;
i laid there
in her blankets,
and thought of you.

and when i say
"thought of you"
i mean;
i wondered if
at that moment
you missed me too.

and when i say "wondered"
i mean;
i imagined your lips
against
my eyelids.

and when i say "against"
what i meant to say
was;
that i wished you
were held against
me.

and when i say "held"
i meant;
that i'll take your problems
and shoulder them
as My own.

but dear,
when i said
"problems"
what i meant to say
was that your
ink-stained fingernails
are god-crafted.

and by "ink"
you know
that i mean;
you've forever
left your mark
on me.

and by "mark"
i mean;
that you've drawn
in all the sides of
all the best poems.

and by "drawn"
i offer up;
that this is not
the first or last
time we fire one another
and scald the oceans.

tonight is strange,
indeed.

it's a good thing
You always know
what i'm really
trying to say.

To those hidden under blankets, huddled close to their lovers:
     There are some among us who are wrapped in blankets of our own tears.

To those who purse their lips in a smile as soft melodies floating through the air lull you to sleep:
     There are those of us who write sleepless lullabies on our arms with the sharp embrace of the blade, our only comfort.

Love is the best thing we can do.
Love internally
And love externally