Somewhere along the narrow path,
I dream of what I cannot have.
Lushes and blooms fill the gravels
whisking away at scared ankles.
Skies scream of consistent mellows,
drowing about my broken trebles.
The winds of change play their harps,
but I am singing past their darks.

I wouldn't mind
if you stayed for the night.
Telling me all of your
fears, and faults,
and vices.

It is not a crisis,
to be open.
All my cards have folded.
You have been stronger
than all my emotions.

There I've finally said it,
I've spoken -
up about our misdemeanours
I've been chosen.

Can you heal a healer?
Your lips seem to know
these figures.

Build me up like a mausoleum,
but I am not your keeper.

Have I always been
a relentless version of what I seek?
Afterthoughts of what I say,
or ignorant splendours and epiphanies?

Refuge to black ink, a loved ones right arm,
or the everlasting solace of my four walls.
Eager, Anxious, Loving, & Unapologetically
most things they’ve so often feared.

To take advice from the branches,
when the roots are deeper.
To take love from the waves,
that have been set to roll back.

This is not your tree analogy,
or your ship gone afloat.
But I am leaping forward,
and falling backwards.

And it looks all the same from
here.

Of where I found it?
Oh that is the tricky part.
It is not in my soft yellow skin,
or my angelic avalanche blues.
Nor the way I reveal their tricks -
or my perception of them.

It is not in my frontal or parietal lobe,
not my hippocampus either!
Perhaps my eagerness knows of it,
and my care too!
Between the skin on my nails,
or in your mouth - or hers,
we haven’t spoken.

They tell me it does not ship,
that they’ll return to sender.
That I’ve got thousands of synapses,
and recovery files to date.

They say you will finally find it
when you learn to stop looking.
Or when you find yourself
in a better place.
So I guess, too bad I never had
anything nice to say?

Now asleep -
When the nights fell
longer than they used to,
I fell too.

Slumbered into your arms.
Your father shrugging,
just to let me stay.

I remember how warm you felt,
our feet pressing,
into each others legs.

Is this my shirt? Is this yours? Does it matter?
What’s yours is mine,
and I am yours.

Pink and precarious,
you are green and enamoured.
I remember the blind dog,

and our blind optimism
- now awake.

Are you scared of the way
I let my lips curl?
That I think pleasantries avoid
responsibilities
to be more uncomfortable.
Stumbling into the unforgiving
fortress
of your worries.
I have had none.

My optimism
is not a scam
calling from Burundi.
It, at least, leaves a message.

Making mosts out of somes,
I have tried to find answers,
conclusions,
and a hypothesis worth exploring.

But maybe sometimes
we just don’t deserve one.
So we get 10.

I want your sweet turpintine musks,
and a sunny Sunday in Augusts ambers.

Glaring at identical indigo’s,
sitting in cognitio cognitions.

I want sharp shooter pupils,
diving for overthought opportunity.