lying in your confidence,

and my confidential feelings.

I have my suspicions
of your curiosity in me.
Do you marvel
at my wicked ways?
My velvet tongues,
and rough orange nails?

I cannot sit in awe of you,
or your forearms and good hair.
I cannot sit, I’m skeptical
of your charm.
This unbothered patience
you hold in zeal,
or in your hard earned BMW.

Mistrust is only
an overpass bridge,
I am just holding
my breath
trying to make it
under you again.

I wish I could love
in the same tender kisses
that I loved then.
These pink Sunday skies,
and your red gym shorts
too long.

I wish I could smile
through the same blonde roasts,
same blue water creases,
but I can only accept
blue mornings before work
and his undone hairs.

I wish I could give
and receive.
In the same sweet
voices and hold you
like I wanted you.
I don't want you.

I wish I could lie.
I wish I could talk to you
like an old friend.
Give you a hug,
as if it was a simple
greeting.

I wish I could know you.
But I can't.
I never could.
It's never that simple

Is it?

Cohesively graced
in soft warm browns.
Never going slowly,
but i have gone.
To see new moons,
the shaking falls
of forearms and
river bends.
I have turned in
muds like a lotus,
a hypocrite anew.
Drowning in dirts
for perspective,
for answers,
for hope,
but not for you.

your magnetic strung up
hydro fields sit in this
delicious precarious
silver storm
of my new June

your rain tethers on
into gentle purple trees
across from the NE window
where I sit perched
in May's altostratus fogs

your gliding about
the unrequited escapings
of my consciousness
or lack-there-of
my unresolved words
now tracing across lined sheets
of which I sip relentlessly

i am thriving
off unreliable narrators
to which I cannot name
achilles' heels
to which I cannot see

neither you nor I
can make sweets
out of
these bitter
and too often
extended
metaphors

Quiet Easters awake the spirit
in a shiny April dusk.
Where you call him "Baby"
by Mum's purpled hydrangeas.

Crossing many desolate fields
in hopes of finding cheerful Forget-Me-Nots.
You have found sorrowful stories
of holy ghosts arising,
and then falling.

Spilling out
of passing spring dwellings,
with trees holding far too many rings.
Strong and sturdy,
yet knocked down for a pretty penny.

I wish we could be
milled, burnt, and wrote on.
Growing out of muds
like the words on this paper.

Like mother nature,
I've been fooled into thinking
I was more than I am.
But only until man makes me,
something I am not.

Draw me in like curtains,
                   sheen whites,
holding onto
                   morning lights.
Legs asleep,
                  minds dreaming.
Your eyes are
                   forever reading
crispy morning
                     Toronto Stars.
Just a Sunday moment
                    fleeting?
Or someday a memory,
                    but,
                    i am
                    only
                    ever
            ­        dreaming.