Press it down against the skin,
just enough to make a crease;
sharp side down.

Pull it back
smooth and perfect,
exchange this pain
for one that's eloquent,
warm, and sharp around the edges.

Tracing the blood inside my veins-
with red lines
carved across my wrist.
Another scar,
flowing red and honest.

With each stroke
I etch this strange relief,
Admiring the red and silver swirls
that make the masterpiece,
and drown the sorrow
that brought steel and flesh together
into this unholy union.

The sweet taste of torture,
sharp side down.

there will always be you and her;
her, by vows and bands tied to me in  
years and pledges  
and you, undeniably etched into  
me like fingerprints on my soul  

and i have tried  
until fingers and wrists bled raw and numb  
to scrub you from my bones,  
spread my ribs and unwind you from around  
my spools and gears, unthread you from  
my fibers, but you are too intricately  
entangled into my workings  
to remove you would be to remove myself  
and i have tried  

so fate would have me split on both  
sides of a coin, always being  
both but never really either  
together and alone  
contented and longing  
whole and fractured  
but never truly complete, one  
half always diminishing the other  

There will always be you and her

You are my late September,  
When spring has long been forgotten  
With its newness, lush green and raindrops.  
The rambunctious giddy splendor of sweaty palms  
And arterial palpitations.  

You are not summer, hot and dripping,  
Air thick, smothering with inescapable heat,  
Panting breaths and desperate lips.  
Perhaps once or twice as we revolved around each other,  
If night airs could tell tales.  

You are not winter,  
Though we have shared Decembers.  
There is no place for you in my snow tipped trellises.  
No coordinate in my circumference that would hold you in ice,  
Frozen and forgotten under rippled white blankets,  
Though perhaps, under wrinkled white sheets.  

You are not fall,  
When autumn turns the ground dirt and dull.  
Trees shedding their raiments  
And reaching naked for the sky.  
Surrendering to the inevitability of winter’s approach,  
Drawing sap down to their rootwork,  
Waiting for another spring  

You are my late September,  
The earth still warm between my toes  
With the remembrance of summer suns.  
More vibrant than spring, and wiser than summer.  
Leaves full of tree-song  
Brilliant gold and fire,  
Blood orange and melancholy yellows,  
Blazing in defiant glory.

I spent weeks  
and months  
and years  
carefully collecting you.  
gathering your pieces  
and promises  
like stars plucked from the night  
and placed in my pocket.  

each moment  
that your lips held my name,  
that you called me your home  
and whispered forever  
into my veins.  

But forever never lasts.  
the stretching out of our infinities
cut short,  
toppled-  
in a few days,  
a few minutes,  
a few words.  

my years of  loving labor  
smashed into  
stardust.

I hope with everything within me;  
on the moon and shooting stars  
old stone wells and white horse waves  
that I am not forgotten  

I still come to the shore and  
wade into the waters,
feel the  current pull against my legs  
threatening to drag me out  
and abandon me in its expanse.  
I steel myself to the waves,  
to the unrelenting deep between us,  
and sing songs across the sea.
some for you
and some for me
and some, for us both,  
and I pray I am not forgotten  

there is a fear, a quiet anguish that  
looms in me like a shadow;  
that the sea has swallowed my voice,  
shipwrecked my song below the waves  
and I am made a stranger.  
an insignificant dot over your horizon.
like so many things
whose time has come
and gone.  

So I hope.
that life has not judged me too fairly,  
that somewhere I am happy,
hidden away inside you  
on a shore that I will never see
and I pray I am not forgotten

Haughty words
of wine and new lovers
frolic on your lips;
and fall on me with daggers and Greek fire.
To turn my insides to opposition
coiled with serpent knots,
staying my eyes from slumbering fantasies,
for it is retribution who hangs the stars on the night.

I fear you have cut deeper than I had permitted
when you set your steel against my ribs;
but let me not drink too heavily
from the cup of self-pity.

This was not undeserved,
earned with pleasantries and ingratitude;
but rather double edged words,
playing smoke and mirrors
to conceal my cowardly suspicions of defeat.

Finally, I have lost my appetite
for this ****** game.
My armor is worn and blood rusted,
exposing the wounds I have been rewarded
from years of waging war.

Perhaps there is still redemption
from the blood-stains on my sword.

you used to sit on me and swing  
cry and swing  
laugh and swing  
tell me of your dreams and fears  
and love,  
as we slipped back and forth  
through the air  
hung from the strong branches  
of our tree  

the ground beneath me  
well worn dirt, surrounded by grass  
The evidence of our days  
and hours  
carving out the earth together  

I am still here,  
tethered to this tree and waiting  
the ground beneath me  
growing greener and more empty  

sometimes you will come  
and sit on me again  
and swing,  
the beauty of purpose  
flooding through me for a moment  

but now when you swing  
it is mostly quiet  
like you are here but I am not  
you do not speak to me,  
do not dig in your heels and toes  
scrape the dirt and push off-
the ground beneath me  
forgets your feet as soon as you are gone  

and I am still here,  
tethered to this tree and waiting  
the ground beneath me  
growing green and empty

There was a time  
when putting voice to
silent declarations  
unspoken longing  
you would have uttered my name  

And it would have danced  
along your strings

So innocently devious
in naive treachery.

More than a fancy walk
Could steal a man's glance
And invite a sparkling collar.
Or soft spoken passion compel the flesh
To gratify its hot appetite.

To speak elegantly of this and that,
And trap me in the stillness of your voice.
All the while you trickle down my vein
And melt away my heart's wall.
Brick by brick,
To my very foundation.

How freely you throw out these kind gestures
That hang me from your words,
And fill my head with empty waiting thoughts.
How carelessly you stole this
From under my ribs,
With a sideways eye and a smile
held in soft lips.
To dance across the room
And ****** it with a whisper.

Beautiful thief.

Did she notice,
when she walked down into my eyes
that my sight stole my voice?
To return in stuttered, half compliments
of flitting words.
too flimsy to hold the heart.

Did she notice my staring gaze,
my eyes, casting timid glances
while I searched myself for eloquent words
to tell her my knees were weak,
and my heart was beating
with good dishonourable intentions.

Wrapped in midnight
and pink hued sunset horizons.
Hiding some and alluding to others,
the woman curved beneath the clothes.

Her hair up, in golden silk curls
to celebrate tonight
with full passioned lips
smacking of sultry invitations,
and drowning deep sea eyes.
Sporting a breathless smile
and black heels.
While I feel so ordinary and tedious,
dressed in my fine suit
and matching offsets.

She takes my hand
so everyone can see
that she is mine.
And now I am alive.

How beautifully she shines;
beyond the limit of the eyes
to the scope of the heart
and the extent of the soul,
that see in different dimensions
than sights' perception can go.
To unmask the splendor
behind the face.

For this is what pulls the strings
of my surrendering;
A man and clothes
may make each other,
but a woman
will make him feel it.

Dreary eyed and worn tired,
On last legs, to stand defiant
Against the falling away of time,
Heavy handed and unceasing.

I remember.

Through the haze of blue white mist,
A familiar feeling,
A perceiving glance,
Breaks forth a spring of fresh thought
That flows down the back of my mind
To whet the stone,
And let memory sharpen.

I remember.

Restored from grey depths
Of dismal slumber;
To stand tall once more,
And seize the joy and pain
That first wove it into me.

I remember.

To hold that moment at times edge,
And share it once more
with the heart's palette.
To give colour to thought,
And meaning to the mind.

I remember.

And so the memory carries on
Till the stone is dry,
And the blade is weak and worn.
The withered thought, falls to rest
Under the pauper's headstone.

...Remember?

The last time I saw you, I smiled, and feigned  
Simple friendship with my lips.  
I walked beside you down a narrow forest trail,  
Tall grass playing at my fingertips, until we emerged  
At a stream, where we sat and talked.  
While my heart beat your rhythm in my ears  
So loudly that I never stopped to wonder,  
If my rhythm was beating in yours.  

I don’t remember most of what was said.  
I can see your eyes, sparkling,  
Darting between mine and the water,  
Your half smile, playing at the corner of your mouth.  
I can see your lips moving, soft and full  
As they wrap themselves around syllables,  
But I can’t make out the words  
Just the thumping in my ears.  

When I leave, for the last time, we hug.  
I feel your soft warmth against me  
And wonder if you can feel yourself  
Thundering behind my ribs.  
I hold on, only a second too long,  
Despite the aching in my blood not to let go,  
Not to unwrap myself from you.  
Because part of me knew, this would be the last time.

Why did I come at all,  
When both of us knew that the stars were already  
Spinning us out of orbit.  
To prove to myself that you were just a friend,  
Or lie to myself that you weren't a lover.

I should have never come,  
Or never left -  
But all we say
is goodbye.

If our lives were captured in paintings,

each moment recorded in brush strokes

I would collect all of my

history into a warehouse,

set it on fire

and dance in the pyre's flames-

until everything

turned to ash.