I made a thing from weeds and bark
and called the thing I made--a heart.
I wrapped it 'round with wire and twine
and crossed it, kept it--called it mine.

Love my heart, love it much
despite the rot and wasps and such
and when you're done--I'll love you back
to see what nightmares come from that.

As lovers thrash the confines of their making,
as sunlight yearns to touch the palest eye,
as you would shed the dark and, upon waking,
take to the daring winter by and by

But for the distant music calling true,
soft moonlight now allumes her sight, unblinking:
Nor word, nor touch, nor sight, of lover, you
Who swims gold in the tide, unsinking.

A message from a distant star
reached Earth after a few million light -years.
It says,"I love you my Little Blue Dot,
see you in a million years."

Words and fire

one intangible, one elemental

so different from each other

yet so similar in nature

when use with care

both give warmth and comfort

                 and

when not careful

destruction follows.

I've written you a letter and I'll send it soon.
It's two pages, twice folded and slipped
into an off-white envelope
where I've licked the back flap
and pressed it down firmly.

Your location is scribbled on the front,
centered almost perfectly
and my address sits top left
just in case your house is no longer there
and the postman decides to return to sender.

However, the corners are beginning to fray
and a small coffee stain
curves around one side,
looping over the place
where a stamp should be.

Your name is starting to fade
and I'm not sure if the 6 in your address
is a 6 at all. So maybe the postman
will just lose it in a sea of forgotten paper
and one day you’ll swim over to it.

I would like you to read the letter I've written,
but the idea behind a message in a bottle
only works if you toss the **** thing overboard.
And the only time I ever told you I loved you
is collecting dust inside my desk.