I love the skyline of my city
in the day, brilliant and bright
at night, glowing with the stars.

Coming down from the mountain,
the lights engulf the cars.
The iron messenger welcomes me
pointing at the sky
above the lovely brick and metal
that make up this history.

Rich with history, indeed it is.
Chills run down my spine
to know the horrors these buildings have seen.
No rain can make up
for the tears that have fallen on these sidewalks.
No bricks can build up
what cruelty has broken down.
No memorial can drive away
the haunting absence felt in that great church.

But there is beauty in this
in that life still remains.
That someone lives to paint the lower walls on Southside
or protect the cobblestone beauty of Morris Avenue.
That we know now where we have been
enough to have come this far.

The skyline says these things to me
it whispers them at sundown.
"We are here, we live
and we live artfully, wonderfully, triumphantly."
The lights glow with pride
and the buildings shine with change.

I love the skyline of my city
because it brings hope.

does my cross bracelet
make me a Christian?

does my Gandhi necklace
"be the change you wish to see in the world"
make me peaceful?

does my jewelry
make me a woman?

I've seen darkness;

I have light.

i lost a love of loves  
(he wrote like this when he was grumpy)
but it will be all right
in time.

for now i'll sip my tea
and mourn my muse
and entertain the thought of him
saving the day.

he's someone's hero, anyways.

it's in the appreciation of a fantastic tater tot
and a shared laugh after a missed rebound in trash can basketball.

it's in risk and fear and a crazy heart
in late night car rides and "I'm not letting go"

it's at Waffle House at 6AM on a Sunday
in the sheepish grins and sweetly sticky countertop.

it's in the raise of an eyebrow, a wink, a nod
in attention to detail. listening. feeling.

it's in perfect confessions (if shared)
and in a drive thru drink (but only if it tastes right)

it's in the smallest of gestures that mean "I'm sorry"
and the nod that says "you are forgiven"

it's in a car (blue, not black) with a broken console
and in the joyous laughter over squeaky leather seats.

it's in feeling different and wild and passionate
but in soft affection and the summer breeze.

it's in August, in between my toes like sand
natural, messy, persistent
but wonderful all the same.

he holds it for me.

The smell of blood hovered; breathing it in, she smiled.

She was slipping;
he was preoccupied.