How my morals and ethics lay at night,
soundly waiting on the day’s break.
I do not shake for desire, or
knocking on woods for a stranger like you.

A tender birch, stiff and rounded sharply,
I’m a whaling dog to the moons closing.
The world was one before me,
and the world will be won after.

I want to fall in love with you
like the way they do in the movies.
By the grace of the forgotten scarf,
the drifting current of situations undrawn.

Kissing you on the subway steps too fast
and follow safely into my own insecurities.
Will you still fall for me then? I wonder...
in the same ways that I guess the endings.

Because I’ve never been fond of soft surprises
But you were, caught in one moment.
Staring at your cut off black gloves intently.

I want to fall in love with you
like the way they do in movies.
By the grace of your good writing
and my ambition to act the part.

and the ground is soft as it should be here,
eleven minutes past midnight on new years eve.
you've seen me for who I should be,
in all my sweaty palms, broken stars, and pillowed moons.

and I see you for who I could be,
a kind hearted, celestial, tall glass of admiration.
ending and entering more years that could be
more ours if you'll so thoughtfully see through.

and if you'll still smell your tropical breeze best
singing in the Honda with me as we will be
in the next years I can drive you to the airport
as you kiss me down where we should be,

humming old jazz tunes like we could be,
and I'm telling you that we will be
on the hard grounds again
in Jacksonville, Florida.

He’s a tall live wire,
in a small blue pool
of my sweet subtle charities.
Picking sacred cherries
near the goals we
once made together.

How does Mount Fuji
keep her fire beneath?
Green satan kimono
lace, and overlined lips.
He’s got soft knuckles
but red palms.

If you plant a shot
you may shoot
my bowing deer.
Osaka’s shrines
sing of the blue eyed
souls they keep hidden too.

Finders of lost artifacts
lost in battles of the heart.
I haven’t cared in
a retrograde.
But I wish I could blow too,
like Fuji at a whistle.

Maybe it’s at 3am with the lights on
or 1pm in the orange gleeming sun.
When I think about dying,
it’s not after my brothers punch.
It’s the moment between feeling everything
and absolutely nothing at all.

I am eating clean, working every muscle,
and still this part of me is oozing black.
On Sunday my smile fades
like the orange sun in November’s 6pms.
Meeting my friends disappointment in me,
and for dinner my godmothers dismay.

How many girls does it take to die to make you believe their emotions are valid?
How many men does it take to fix
a lightbulb without a fuse?

I am grey and preluding. I have wounded and wound.
When I see truth I hum closer
Just enough, to swallow it whole.
I am not an angel, only mocking.
The lips of an answer, a plotted confession.
Time has been spent on your alter.
It is beating black, with blue siding. I have looked too long
I think my bloodied knees would know.
Yet flames still flicker and each ember dies over and over.

Now I am a field. A woman standing up,
Searching my corners for what she really is.
Then waving high to the doubts, out to the wines,
and low to the moons.
I see her tears, and take to them.
She thanks me in more cries, and softer verbs.
I am her saviour. Yet she hides too.
Each night it is her morning.
In me she has blown away a young girl, and in me a wiser woman
Gazes towards her day and night, like a new moon.

I wish I could be bigger
fuller than a lemonade glass,
hair waved out,
and nails painted mauve.

If you could see me
for who I've tried to be.
A tongue bitting sweetener
with clean white sheets.

Never a sinking green raft
shooting its last and final flare.
I am all too reserved,
and I am all too stubborn.

But still I've been floating,
going further, on to new,
flares burning brighter,
hair growing longer.

I wave out now to my old home,
returning to myself again.
My nails are painted green,
and I've grown just short of an inch.