i would chase away
all your demons, if that would
help to change your mind.

your loss for words
is the most beautiful poetry
i have ever known;
i want nothing more than
to hold that secrecy
behind my lips
and keep it there
forever.

i once knew a boy who spoke of
rustling leaves as a euphemism for
supreme love; he told me that he could hear them
whispering, "come closer, yes,
i really mean you"

can you hear it? he asked,
can you hear it too?

i closed me eyes and tried to remember
the last time i had heard an invitation as subtle as
the ones that hid in the solace of
autumn's last breaths, and there it was
buried in the softness of your palms outstretched
to the stars (longing to hold hands with the heavens)

when i opened my eyes again, i found myself
face to face with the only truth i would ever
learn: that every thing i've ever
needed to know is hidden between that boy's
words, your curious fingers, and the orange rain
that falls in november.

is it winter where you are?
no snow
or blizzards, just
chill fog
and frost.
the winter of a city
that gave up long ago.
--------------------------------
winter seems to follow you.
damp grey mornings
skulking at your feet like a beaten dog.
whimpering in mist
and growling in
weak thunderstorms
that can't quite wash away the clouds.
kick december in the ribs
because you know it will always come back
to sleep at your feet.
winter seems to follow you
but
i could be wrong.
--------------------------
i know all about stormchasers
but you're so much
sadder
than that
[pathetic like a beaten dog]
not chasing death
or danger
just defeatism.
chasing defeat and hopelessness
and grass-made-glass
by the frost of the night before.
---------------------
is it winter where you are?
is december shivering at your door?
in my room it is fall,
and all the rotting leaves
remind me of you.
------------------------
is it winter where you are?
you've evaded the summer all your life
hot air
and sun
killing the clouds.
the indian summer will catch up with you
and september
will melt you
through.
pathetic puddle of defeatism.
aggregated mist
and fog
like a beaten dog,
sinking into the deepest blues
and grays
but oh
you were always
the patron saint of denial.
------------------------------
rip me apart like the letters you never sent
postmarked 'tomorrow, tomorrow'-
but tomorrow never came.
[it's hard to tell dawn from dusk
when the sky is always
gray.]
runaway notes from a foreign season.
rip me apart and i won't think of you anymore.
rip me apart
and all your apologies,
condolences
and accusations
will be scraps of paper under dry leaves.
-----------------------------------
i'm tired of following my dreams
when they just lead me off the cliffs.
you follow winter into the sea
and drown a whimpering dog.

kacey tried to ****
herself at thirteen; she cried
when it didn't work.

she didn't try once
more; she was tired of feeling
insignificant
in everything she did.

today i woke up not knowing where i
was or how to get back home,
(or if i would ever feel at home again)
because although i awake in the same
bed every day, this room is unceasingly cold
and i find myself more and more lost in these
sheets that i don't know as my own  anymore.

i had lain there for forever trying to remember
the last time i had felt comforted by sleep-
when the only thing i could find under my pillows
were nightmares about empty skies and
words that got lost in translation, i had to stop
in my tracks and reteach my self how to breathe.

i'm starting to get this awful feeling
that i'm not always going to fall asleep alone
but i'll still wake up terribly lonely.