Maybe I haven’t met you yet.
You are my beach.
A happy spot, bringing only cloudless thoughts.
A relaxing stretch that melts away the dark.
Two piña coladas, umbrella, towel, and endless sun.
You are my beach.
To dream is fun.

Remembering
Beautiful days;
So perfectly imperfect.
Pomegranate stains
On white fabric.
Digging for worms,
The smell of earth.
Rug burned knees,
Sliding fast on wet grass.
Sticky, melted ice cream;
Vanilla bean and sherbet drip.
Sunburned skin so angry,
Don't touch and irritate it.
Buried messages in bottles,
Thinking one day someone
Would find them.

Ink. to page,
Splatter,
Scattered,
Matter.

Missing ink?
In this pen.
You stare
Around the room.
Who to ask,
Who to reach
Out to?
Intrusively
Overcome,
Invisibly,
These manifestations
Fester,
Constantly.

Ink running
Down an edge,
Staining
The floor.

no dot for the “i.”

no words for the page.

they refuse to form today.

There is something
Hiding beneath this skin;
Oh, under it, so far below’
To atoms and molecules,
Flying around inside us.

I guess we’re the deep thinkers,
Senseless dreamers in love with ideals?

We are ideas ourselves,
Just try to catch us; don’t put us in jars; please.
No one has ever
Fully grasped us.

The thing is,
All I ever wanted to be was the one;
But, all I’ve ever found is,
They wanted others.

An idea.