Blessed fragility.
My grandfather lost his religion,
somewhere along the way.

Not long after Mom passed
he gave up Sunday mass
for long and unrequited naps.

I wonder what dreams are seeded
by the ever present soundtrack
of Hogan's heroes.

The virtuous voice
of father time
is singing
bittersweet lullabies
that I don't
even recognize.

My ears ring,
and I squinch up my face
in revulsion.

Deciding what it is that I want
is more difficult
than just wasting my life
being indecisive.

Waking up thirty years old.

Dying free
of family.

It's selfish
and it's cruel,
to tell you
that I'm thinking about you.

So I'll just go to bed.

Quietly and alone.

Touch me.
Don't wait,
don't make
me say it.

Where do the lights go
when they leave your eyes?
Do they waft along through the rafters,
do they linger on long after
love has come and gone?
Do they illuminate darkened rooms
with a subtle radiance,
like seeing heat on the horizon
that sunny afternoon I spent
speeding down I80?
I saw a mirage mirroring your vestige
and my flesh rippled with goosebumps,
my thoughts had been on the lines
right as they began to blur.

Bear down on what it means
to be in-between
the dawn and the evening
of my life.

Feels like grit in my teeth.
Sand in my sheets.
Burning coals under my feet.
The glint of a knife.