I'm still straining
     To see the vibrancy
Of colors painting reality,

But at least I've
     Caught my breath
And found my sound.

The whisper of autumn
Creeps beneath an open window,
Contrasting heavily to the warmth
Of a secluded soul taught
By willow tree fingers
Scraping against the mirror
Of a lake frozen over
And memories accidentally mixed
With too much desire
And not enough output
That the cold should not be feared,
For perhaps sometimes
The most distasteful sensations
Are the ones that remind us
That we are still breathing them in,
Alive and well enough
To reside in our own skin.

More brilliant
     Than a library,
More pure
     Than a spring.

You seem like a thing of the past,
Like a book I've read years ago
And forgotten most of the plot to.  

Though a vague structure of the events
Remains cemented forever in
The corners of my mind
More dark and unkempt,
The details that once made it hurt
Have withered into dust,
Now only scattered
In small concentrations
Across the ledges of my days
That I forgot once carried the weight
Of my adoration for you.

Recently, it seems,
I drive my little blue car,
With more miles on its transmission
Than it has left to safely travel,
And I turn my music up loud,

Loud enough to shake the frame
Of my little blue car,
Competing against the wind
That taps my door
In suppressed shivers,
Pushing and pushing,
Trying to run me off the road,

Loud enough to where it is solid,
A single mass of volume and sound
Slithering down my throat
With each raspy breath I pull in,
Like the One-A-Day vitamins
I keep "forgetting" to take,

Loud enough to remind the birds,
The ones that lagged behind
And forgot to fly south this winter
To shoot off the creaking pine branches
Drenched in the sweat of melting snow,

And it's those things,
The pine needles socializing with the whispering wind,
The shimmer of glossy hazard when my headlights reflect off the pavement,
The rust of chain-link fences scrapping into Spring,
These are the things that rationalize the beat of my music
In my little blue car
Speeding along without purpose.

I suppose these must be
     My heartfelt lyrics
Trying to dance to the tune
     Of your animal spirits,

Because I checked out
     Our astral chart
And it told me we were
     Idea for love.

I'd let myself
     Burn up in every last sunset
If it meant
     I'd become part of the sky.

Is it a coincidence
That all my favorite songs
Remind me of you?

For a moment so quick,
As I passed between the
Shimmer of silky moon
Cutting through the trees
Huddled above,

I felt my heart beat again,
And a wave of fresh blood,
Lively blood that remembered
How to live and how to move
And what it meant to coarse through veins
Flooded my being,

And at the moment in between this moment
That I glimpsed at the warmth of my skin
The shrill winter whisper
Shuffled back in
And told my heart to stop
And reminded it that beating means living
And with living comes death,
And that I have died too many times
To let it beat anymore.

If I imagine rain
     A downpour dampening
This melancholy mess
Matted and mistaken,
     Strung from strings
Uncertain and chimes
    Brass and scratched,
Headlights screeching
Unforgiving into the swift
    Grasp of dusk
    Over cornfields serenaded
By a cacophony of
     Twitching twigs
     Broken and rattling
Against my ribs beginning to hollow,

If the rain
Could caress my worries
And cauterize my concerns,
I'd wade in the
Static of storm clouds
     And cheer to the
     Clap of atmospheres
          Cracking, crackling
               Chaotic sheets
Of tips and taps,
And oceans down the
     Windows and a song
     Crafted on the roof
That protects me
Unrightfully so,
As I need to be soaked,
I need to wash away
In a flood of bubbling
Rain and splash
     Against the abstraction
     Of these thoughts,
Baking in the sun
Like tea that has only
     Begun to brown.

All the pieces
     Of myself
I never quite
     Understood,

Indescribable
     To those who've never seen
The colors of a night
      Never long enough.

The tides of my time
Turned over themselves
Again and again
As the trees of thought
Rotted in the night of my mind,
And I was lost and without
The will to raise my wings,
Blind to the fact
That the sun might rise again,

Only she who wore
Those moonlight eyes
Washed with the blue of the sea
Could sharpen the horizon
And expose its potential
In her milky twilight glow,

For the moon hung lazily
By some rusted hook in the sky
Wavering with a subtle chill
From the quiet wisps of evening wind,

The moon was silent and seeing,
Overlooking the stillness of it all,
Perched atop some invisible stand
Cemented in the stars,
Untouchable by hands
Far from greatness,

Forever strung from the heavens
By some apparatus of fishing line,
The moon listened to my sorrows
And cradled them gently
So as not to damage them,
And let me cry away
The carvings of indecency
I had etched into the loose
Fibers of my being,

She was my moon,
Grandly lit in the ink of my mind,
So desperately trying to light her own,
And she called me her angel
Whose feathers were always ruffled,
Soaked wet with the weight of our dusks,
But it seemed to me
Her brilliance never flickered or dimmed,
Never blurred or shrugged
Until the day she sighed,
And rolled her eyes
And cut my wings away.

This morning,
     I pulled a flaming string
           Of *****, ruby tinted hair
     From the inside of a sock on my floor,
     And in the shower,
          I found a single thread
               Of burning, stranded follicle
     Wrapped around the drain's grate,

Which struck me as odd,
     Because you've never step foot
     In my shower (as much as I might have wished),
          You've never even set foot in
           That bathroom at all,
     It was always too ***** to touch your porcelin skin,
          To by seen by your eyes or feel your judgement,
     But even so,
           I still find your hair everywhere.

This morning,
     I put on a shirt,
     One that you said held me half as nice
          As you ever could,
     And I thought of your words
     And I thought of your gentle touch as I plucked
          A lingering fiber of a lost flame flicker
     From the breast of my attire,

And another wriggling yarn undone
     Soaked in the end of a sunset
          From the interior of my ripped jeans pocket
     That still embedded the whisper of your perfume,
     Your hair was absolutely everywhere.

This morning,
     I stumbled into my car
     And sulked in the sun
          As a hair of yours relaxed
          Among the dust of dashboard features,
     And the sight of it
          Prompted my mind to wake,
          My hand to shift into gear,
          And my tired legs to throttle the gas.

This morning,
     The cars and trees and blank-slated faces
     Hazed together in a fuse of
          Gray and brown and all the other ugly colors,
     The colors of dead things,
     Which must have been why
           I drove to the cemetery.
     The gates, rusted and lonesome,
          Creaked a "hello",
          And the ground was frosty
                To my arrival.

This morning,
     I found a hair of yours
     Draped over the head of a stone,
     And that struck me as utterly odd
          Since you've never been here before now,

And this morning at work,
     My pants were covered in dirt
          From kneeling before you as the sun came up,
     But I didn't care,
     I had to come see you
          And ask you to keep

Your ******* hair to yourself.

You live in the
Autumn wind,
Whispering hints of
An approaching winter
Both among the trees
And among my ribs,

And I'm left chilled
Without the warmth
Of your hand in mine,

And much like the grass
Speckled across the ground
Cold and a tiresome gray,
My chest freezes over.

The lilac
Is the flower of first love,

And while you sleep in my arms
Someone else holds

My bouquet of lilacs.

The best thing about a
Smile is its ability to mask
All the crinkling eyes
Brimming with salt and
The scratches along my arms,
Desperately trying to carve
My skin into an array
Of something finally beautiful,
Desperately trying to clip the
Nails of the monster
You buried into my chest
Alone and without a match,

But it still seems to burn anyways.

We all like to think
     Our lives as though they're
           Stories,

And ourselves to be
     The hero, grand and shining
          In some tale yet to be written,

An underdog,
     Burdened with the weight of the world,
          Waiting for that lucky break,

But sometimes our final act
    Never resolves to an exciting conclusion,
         Because no one is guaranteed anything more
              Than the role of a background character

In someone else's saga,
     Prose proposed entirely devoid
          Of our own happy endings.

The top
     Of a Ferris wheel
In the fleeting breeze
     Of the setting summer sun.

The holes in my lungs,
They peer around like beady eyes
Searching for some glimmer of light,

The air that flowed through them
Used to whistle when I breathed,
But now all they do is creak,

Clotted and dead,
Black and rotting,
I'm drowning from the inside out

My dream catchers
Must be defective,

    I still see you every night.

I so often
Convince my thoughts
That I lose my soul
Among the unknowing
And empty, drifting space
Of whatever it means
To be alive
Because I like the
"Adventure" of it,

But only here,
In the murmuring
Hum of a bedside
Lamp glowing against
The ache of
So-late-it's-early,

Only now,
From behind the safety of
My flimsy bedsheets
Covered in lint
Will I admit

I don't know what I'm doing.

And I'm t͢e͢r͢r͢i͢f͢i͢e͢d͢
     I'm doing it all wrong.

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.

My car has been making
     Strange, clunky sounds,

So I turn up the music
     Until the bass smothers the concern.

What is good
When everything that seems so right
Feels like it's anything but?

So it's gotten to this point,
     Where I'm refreshing each page
And checking my phone
     Every
          Two
               Minutes
In hope
     Someone,
          Anyone,
Will find me interesting again.

The patterns of
Glimmering light
Refracted in the bubble
Droplets dangling
     Off a glass pane,
A rough skirmish
     Of splintering wood
     Stained by age and
          The sea
Washing in still waves below,
Neither of which reflect
The brilliancy of
     White washed sheets
Baked in a vanilla scent
     And a tidal quiver
     Of fingers shaking
At the anticipation
That they may
Caress skin half silk
With patches of sand,
Warm in the sun
That looms behind
Gray fog over a pale
     Blue, seeping from
The cracks that
Scatter about a space
So infinitely random,

Lips bruised from
A night needing no moon
     To shine away
Dusk creeping up
     From pine-needled soil,
Kissing with bare
     Chests and thinking
     With flickering eyes
That so seemingly
Match that of a candle's
     Shadowy counterpart
In the enveloping
Elegance of a deary
Dance to the world
     Soaking wet,
While darling,
We lay amongst
     Boxes of sheets
In our chests
And days without
So much as the rest
Of the beating amp
Inside our ribs,
     Shaking our hair
Bedazzled with milky
     Morning twilight
Dispersed through an
     Array of sleeping giants,
Gently weeping away
The toxicity of daily hustle,
Cotton legs and
Arms made of satin rope,
     Wearing the indifferences
     In the fibers of pasts
     Evaporated and sprouting next spring,
Flower crowns and fireplaces,
     Murky waters and the shiver

As you trace your fingernail
     Across the peak of my collarbone.

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?

I'll marry you
If not only to extend
The warm breezy peace
Akin to summer nights softly spoken,

Because I need to hold you closer
Than the sky holds the clouds
For a time longer
Than the moon has chased the sun.

She is a black spot
Much like ink on a white
Sofa, a mark of insanity,
A truth that smears

More and more at every glance.

Nothing good
Ever lasts forever,
Because everything good
Gets lost eventually,
And everything forever
Will succumb to the fading
Of never good enough.

Lately,
I've had you on my mind
Like an old song
You've rediscovered the beauty in,
And you've been occupying
The rooms in my head
For once without a chance
Of vacancy.

I woke up today
With the overwhelming feeling
That I was alive,

That my skin could feel
Cold and warmth,
That my heart could feel
Joy and pain,

And I stood in the shower
And let the water wash over me,
Wondering if all of my troubles
Were self constructed,

And what was keeping me back
From feeling connected to reality,
Like a leaf to a branch,
A tree to the crust of the Earth,

Like light from the sun
That's always guaranteed.

What more can we seek
     Than to lose ourselves in beauty,

Entangle ourselves in creation?

And fall backwards,
     Arms crossed,
          And eyes closed,
With the trust that
     The Universe will send
     Some curious cloud
          To catch our
          Wandering spirits,
     Our inquiring minds,
     Our sleepless eyes
     And our hopeful breaths,
     Encapsulated surrenders
     And hazed, lost sighs.

Beneath the milky grin
Of a smoldering shimmer
Cast lost among the
Unwavering yearn of
The night time sky,

We stood with our
Dusty shoes clamped together,
Our arms folded inward
And our heads too heavy to lift,

And we made our
Light fuzzy wish on
Dandelion puffs picked
Before the morning's dew,

"All of the wishes
You've ever made before
Meant nothing,"
I'd say,

"In order to make this one
Mean everything."

How content
     Could it be
That in this life after death
     I grow again as a willow tree,
Standing weak to
     Dry wind blowing calm,
           In a grassy field,
           High on a hill,
     Alone against the contrast
           Of the sky
     And together with the symmetry
           Of existing just for the sake of it.

Like fire
     If the flames
Could burn
     Themselves.

This morning
I woke up
Next to a stranger,
And when I found myself
Picturing your face
Instead of hers
I'm not sure if
I was more
Terrified
Or relieved
When I felt exactly the same.

It's the drone
Of some forgotten tune
Bubbling up static from
A radio station you've never heard of,
Lack luster in comparison
To the glow of their voice
When they'd murmur the
Curves and valleys of song
And sway their hips
In sync with the rhythm
In the early blush
Of the mid-morning sun
Soaking the kitchen whole,

The run in with a smell
That only half encapsulated
The fire in their hair
And the spirit in their heart,
Nuzzled warm against the
Breathless rasp of winter,
Somehow seeming to weave itself
Into all of your clothes,
No matter how many times you washed them,
But it was okay
Because you didn't mind
Always having them close to you,

The upturned stretch
Of a stranger's lips
As they hand you your coffee
And for a moment so quick
You hardly catch it wink into existence,
You see their face again,
And hold up the line,
Now shifting with impatience,
Because you forgot that
Your feet weren't cemented
To the ground,

And it's things such as these
That for a fraction so small
You might just miss it,

They exist in your world again.

It was last night,
To feel your cracked hand
Resting gently in my own,
The hum of your voice
Tied down an octave
Lower with a deary,
Flowery rasp escaping
The curve of your lips
So soft in the occasional
Murmur of streets lights
Winking past our speeding car,
The way your head
Fell cocked to the side,
Nuzzled in the knitted fibers
Of some patterned scarf
Draped around your neck,
It was last night
As I felt your fingers
Intertwine with my own
That I felt at home
In a world that spins
So fast,
So without worry,
Now, as do I.

I dreamt of you last night,
     smiling sweet like the sun
          with a surface cool to the touch,
Your chest rising against mine
     with a spark of
            never-close-enough,
And your chest falling
     as you exhaled flower petals
          and spring days
               right after it's rained,

And when I awoke
      in my stone-cold
            casket of a bed,
Even after pulling over
     Another blanket (twice as thick),

I shivered.

If I could freeze time,
Cease it's pass like the flow
Of a frosted over brook,
I'd find solace in the
Radiant warm of your embrace,

And I'd squeeze your hand
Tightly enough to feel
Our hearts beat against
Each other in the pulse
Of the veins of our fingers,

And we'd stare to the nighttime heavens,
It's inky blackness only rivaled
By the sleek straight of
Your hair I so adore
To tangle my hands in,

And the night sky would be
Spattered with illuminating dots
Burning silently in their stillness
Somewhere in the infinity
Of the cosmos,

And though they be
Millions, billions, trillions
Of miles away,
I look to your eyes
Shimmering in the basking moon,
And find an infinity
All our own,
Bundled up beside me
In the brisk hum of an unmoving night.

Autumn,
Where the sky dulls
And the grass quivers,

Where the ground stiffens
And the birds abandon their treetop posts
That scratch the sky like brittle fingers,

Where the clouds huddle together
To soak up the distant sun
And the where wind whispers against my skin,

Where the world starts to die,
Life falls back into me,
And the char in my lungs chips away,

And the leaves on the ground
Pad the pavement
With a crunch that breaks the monotony of these dry days,

And I'm home,
In the wake of the color before the white,
The warmth before the decay,

Falling forwards again into a rhythm
Of something old,
But entirely brand new.

I know I said
I swore I wouldn't do anything
For you today,
But I figure this isn't breaking
Any sort of promise
(Pinkie related or not),
So I hope it's fine
If I call you mine
And ask:
"Will you be my Valentine?"

And so we lay
On warm carpets
And smooth tile floors,
Safe from the grasp
Of the spirits of the stars
And the beauty of unpredictability,
And we call it "stable"
To keep ourselves from
Creeping towards insanity.