The grieving process is strange:**
step 1. the shock factor: Your heart sinks inward upon itself, because you can't believe what you hear, as if it is a fiction book on a shelf, nothing you read is quite clear.
step 2. Vent to everyone through texts and tears. Set the shameful Facebook status you'll regret in a year.
step 3. Make your "jaded soul" a thing to the naive ear, then feel ashamed of that self critique for it was two severe.
step 4. Cry in the bathtub to Rascal Flatts.
step 5. Talk about it too much.
step 6. Realize it is okay to still care, just be honest.
step 7. Don't let their self pity through drunken visits be misunderstood, they may still care but doesn't mean you should.
step 8. cry some more
step 9. lose yourself
step 10. find yourself


and do it all again.
Because this life is about hope
don't you ever think it's the end.
Doors start where houses stop and lovers always win.

At a young age they teach us that lightning looks like a geometrical line.
It's shape is a perfect kind of disaster with diagonals defined.
but when we grow up
and we're stuck in the storm
we find it impossible
To measure
A light so worn.

Seldom do people say "I'm satisfied"
nothing is ever enough
Because humans created time,
they deal with the burden of "interrupt"
We're never able to finish
We say we were stopped
When really that could have no effect,
but we created clocks.

Car door slams
Gate opens
Keys jingle
Breath stain on the door window
from my yellow, fluffy friend
rain barely drizzling
foreshadowing the day's intent
listen to music
do some homework
eat
fight
sleep
wake up at 3
write a poem
and feel a little weak.
Wake up the next day
drink your coffee
go
for time is just a number
and fate is yours alone.

I will make of you a face. It will turn to me in the night, breathe a sweet sigh of a dream and pose unanswered questions to hang above us in the moonlight. Your lips will be marveled, your lips will sit upon the greatest words ever told, and on your lips i will hang my soul , and on your lips, i will hang my soul. I make of you a bridge for your nose up on which your forehead will sit, it will stand high and heavenly upon your nose, and i can place my toes, grounded, bit by bit. Your nose will ***** downwards towards my whispers and silence my monologue and soliloquy, upon your nose will i bear my vows, and my vision, like a precipice hanging over the sea.

I will make of you a face. It's chin will cup my hand, and it will hold my bones and fingertips, your chin will stroke my face, as it stokes a fire, poker in the wood, drinking fire by the sips. Your cheeks will be broad and tight, and hold my defences and my punches and blows, it will move with the wind, and catch the first light, and catch my tears and absolve my woes. I will make of you your jawline, a structure so bold by any a man, it will proudly stand fierce to gain some ground, battle hardened by the burning grass, and cutting efface and rock hewn, without a ink of a sound.

I will make of you a face. Your temples will be where i worship, my prayers will be my hands, i will send you bidding of heaven and watch as they grin and bear tight across my rough seas and dry lands. Your eyebrows will be a gourd, they will frame and catch the sun, they will shadow the morning, day, noon and night, they will find catcher in the rye, a thief on the run. I will make of you your eyes, my irises are yours my sweet love, I will cut them from marble, coal and the universe, i will chisel them with great care, for these are mine, the glory and the power, the greatness and the worst.

I will make of you a face, my dear love, for if i make for you this great vestige of vision then, my powers  they are yours, as they see me, only me, and they will understand my ever expansion of succinct precision, for in the making of you a face, my greatest work that has ever been, i see your face, as it sees me, and perfection is gained from something wholly, and magnificently unseen.

In South America, truck drivers are paid collossal amounts
of money, to deliver supplies between towns on
roads, no wider than the width of their trucks.

When you turned up on my doorstep that sunday in the rain,
your eyes told me before your lips did.

Sixty three hundred days is a long long time to wait for someone,
but I would do it all over again,
if it meant I could fall asleep in your arms one last time.

Next Autumn when the leaves turn rusty and fall from the trees,
I'll remember the afternoon we spent in Victoria park,
where you waded to the middle of the duckpond,
just because I said you wouldn't.

Your mother always told me when we stacked away the good china after Sunday lunch,
that your stubborness always got in the way of what was right.

You've been gone eight hours and still nobodies reminded me how difficult I can be at times.

Eight months later and everytime the phone rings I imagine your voice crackling down the line "come get me from the supermarket, I have sugar buns. "