Death is not so bad;
I died long ago
And didn't realize it
Until now

I long for the breath of Autumn,
Lingering on the cusp of a heavier sun
And a horizon layered crackled gold,
For it's the chilled wisps of wind
I hold strong in my lungs
That's melancholic and
Warmly familiar,
It's the hint of a brewing shiver
That calms the aching mind
And eases the souls of the weary and withered.

What if, beyond the great unknown of death,
there is nothing
but fragments of memories
flickering into place
like a flame just ignited,
memories of all the good times,
all the first kisses
and starry nights,
family gatherings
and the wind dancing through autumn leaves,
all the moments that filled your heart,
and all of those that shattered it just the same,
all the stupid fights
and good jokes
and fruitful meals,
all the common day sights
reframed in to odd familiar beauty
when juxtaposed against an eternal scarcity,
all the long drives,
anxious waits,
and books you never quite did get around to reading,
all the long nights
and early mornings,
all the conversations you'll never forget,
and all the passing words you wish you hadn't,
to each season of your life,
each phase, each desire, every dream,
all the people that molded you,
even the ones that linger in foggy memories now,
what if, when the heart is weak and the body
begins to wither,
when your bones succumb to
to the gravity of existence,
what if this is all there is,
blurring in some melancholic haze,
forever reverberating
against the weightless expanse
of the void always yearning?

Your skin is a pastel melody,
Though you enrich my days
With a rhythm that is
Anything but monochromatic,

Your eyes a steadfast housing
For waves of gray-blue, green speckled swirls akin
To a summer storm just before dusk,
Thunderous like your will,
Raining refreshment like your essence,

Your curved pose carved in
In loops of my mind
You're always seemingly tangled in,
About where we will go to eat
This weekend, and
How many hours we will lay
Huddled up like hibernating cubs
In a nest we've built from blankets,

Winters no longer soaked with solace,
But now with the eager chance
To shut ourselves in,
If not only to enjoy the eternal company
Of two beings who love being with each other.

Now forever doesn't seem so nearly long
When I'm tripping over days
And sliding through the weeks
With you,

You make the cold days seem
Too brief in their presence,
And every day a little bit warmer
Than the last.

If my flesh could sing,
It'd bellow, it yearn in endless echo
For the familiar comfort
Of your fingers gracing over me
On a lazy Sunday morning
With nothing better to do
But enjoy one another,

For no longer am I
A man standing lonesome against the
Stiff gust of the present moment,
But a being who is only a
Malformed morph of skin and bones
Without the extension of myself,
The inner of my core,
The hue of all my colors,

The movement behind my dancing,
The alleviation to all my sorrows,
You,
For now, and for as long as I am me,
You,
For tomorrow, from yesterday, and all the years we dream,
You,
For as long as time tells and suns set,
You.

Listen to my words,
For once they speak
Without hearing themselves,
Bound by no self-realized gravity,
Buzzing around my fingertips
Like a moth lost in the
Flickering fire of a forgotten
Candle wick,

Listen to my praise,
As t................................................................­.................................................................­.................................................................­.....................................this
feels
better,

and i can speak easier here
in the white
empty
everything
of a screen
not cluttered
with scary words
of thoughts i wish
weren't fake


and just typing like this
very small
very..... free
feels so good
just being the pile of leaves
not the spectacle of a fountain is might surround,

false flows of flowery water
tainting my rusting mind
with haphazardly crafted
anecdotes of a reality

too elaborated to be real

...

i can sleep here
with one eye open
to peek at the world i fall through

like observing softly
the dancing sheet of fresh linen
riding the curves of wind, hushing
through windows half ajar

Did the self-encasing ice
Ever melt enough
To reach beyond,
So you
Stretch your tired fingers
In the cool spring air,
And flicker your eyes open
To the mid-morning mist,

Breathed in just shallow enough
To soothe that rain-like pit-pattering heart
And coo the aches of chilly soul,
Hushing the wisps of winter wither
Beyond the mind and somewhere thither.

I wish to bury
     my toes like roots
     in the soil,

Breath in the crisp
     summer soaked air,
Ringing out a day's worth
     of yawning afternoon sun,

And fall back into
     the sleepless nights
That drifted into days
     that didn't matter.