As truthful as truth gets,

we did love each other with the passion

and turmoil of the tempest.

But as truthful as truth gets

we knew one thing:

we don't belong to each other--

we never did.

We were thieves and boy, did we steal.

Our souls conspired to share the penalties of our crime,

and it was all worth it

until judgment came, and we were found guilty.

But as truthful as truth gets,

I regret nothing.

Mirror on the wall,
tell us we’re fair
lest we wither and fall.

Draped in beautiful patterns of silk,
skin smooth and creamy as milk,
lips blood red with innocence.

Unravelling at the seams,
such nonsense.

Mirror on the wall,
belie perfection
lest we die and fall.

Say we’re fairest of them all.
A cut here, a slash there,
it shouldn’t hurt at all.

Say we’re worth a shot.
We’re beautiful, are we not?

Your eyes
travel down
from mine
on a
sensual pace
lingering in
e
   v
      e
         r
            y
                  place.

I'm a paper plane
in the clouds
there's not even
a whisper, a breath
of air on my wings
but I'm high
you get me high
unreachably high
and baby we ain't landing soon

I don't mind these shackles that burn
watch them hiss and sizzle,
leaving the skin torn
I don't mind these shackles that burn
as long as they're your hands
pinning, leaving my soul torn

the heavens erupt into light
stars are born, bright
as we make love
you, with your poet hands
I, coming undone
bursting at the seams
beyond help
spent

We ran outside.
Our small, bare feet leaving tracks
on the well-mowed grass.
You had that impish grin
on your face.
It was drizzling lightly.
we took out our paper boats
and set them on a puddle
by that old oak tree.
Loudly we cheered
as our boats set sail
on their maiden voyage
knowing they won't
really go anywhere
but their small universe
and that somehow
the rain would soak them
and drown them.
But we kept on
and watched our paper boats,
you and I
under that day's
crying sky.

She looks at her hands,
and realize that she's older.
She counts each calloused finger
like the number of years she has stopped
touching flowers,
or flowing rivers,
or the rush of air outside the car window.
The lines are deeper,
veins darker and more pronounced
like parched land missing rain.
Drifting through a dream
of finish lines, noise, and demands.
In a strange relationship with time,
Drunken nights and half-drunk days,
of semi-amnesia and the self-induced pain,
of daydreaming and waking up wishing to be dreaming,
A thousand and one heartbreaks, ecstasy,
and obsession.
Aching to nurture and mourning unborn children
stretches and push and pulls
sedentariness
To run and not be found.
She looks at her hands,
and realize that she's older.