At night, against the pulsing embryonic black which could
Squeeze any number of untold horrors from it’s voided heft,
There sits a door; bright searchlights unmoving, having forever
Ago found and revealed the menacing target of their feverish hunt.
The lights, beacons of vision and revelation stay still,
Afraid to ever lift their gaze from the door.

The door; a crimson sentinel of conformity’s’ demands. A gate
To a finite space of infinite secluded terrors. It’s mocking facade,
Not the true foundation of the haunting visage, but it’s chosen
Illumination against the choking nothingness around it.
There is nothing else but it, and if the lights lose
Their oppressive gleaming, there will be nothing.

Would it not be better for the deep to win the ever waging war
Against our struggles to find hints of sight and recognition?
If the door were to vanish from the othering out there,
then it would be impossible to not turn inward. A forced reflection,
a mirror that’s presence is known, existence felt, but is unseen,
only available when the absence is absolute.

Nonplussed, the bastion remains, a gravity well pulsing
In and out the night, as if the darkness centered around
Maintaining the illusion of safety from knowing ourselves.
Do not be afraid, you will not be forsaken or alone with anything
Other than the beating of your quickened pulse, the edges
Of your vision shrinking until all that you are

Is mirrored in that crimson sentinel.

I run my fingers everywhere,
Well, almost everywhere.

They dance along your back in reassurance,
Seek shelter in the comfort of your own,
Press matter to matter to confirm your existence,
Wring the day’s dripping tension from your back,
And shoulders, and feet.

In the mornings they profusely itch,
Until they get the chance to text you good morning,
In the afternoons they gnawingly ache,
Until they’re knocking at your door.
But mostly, in the evenings they joyously sing,
Home once again wrapped up in yours.

I run my fingers everywhere,
Well, Mostly everywhere.

But mostly, they strain to breaking
Reaching out to you.

I want to buy you every Forget-Me-Not
so that my name's the only one you remember.

I want to drive down highways, backroads, and forgotten paths, picking those wildflowers that you love.

Lilies and hydrangeas, and all the other fleeting pretty things,
I want to give them all to you.

After collecting every flower, and setting your world into
a wild bouquet, I want to just be there, with you.

I weirdly - no, wantonly - want to kiss you the next time

Your blue-gray eyes besiege my focus and I resign

My sight - no, soul - to your vision and spread your word

As the bearded and fattened prophet of these feelings deferred.

You run your fingers everywhere,
Well, almost everywhere.

They whisper through my hair,
Intertwine with mine in quiet times,
Comfort me with gentle squeezes,
Link behind me when we hug hello,
And goodbye.

I’ve seen the product of their delicate touch,
Felt their strength in your convictions,
Tasted the delicious meals of their efforts,
But mostly, I fear they will continue,
To keep me an arm’s length away.

You run your fingers everywhere,
Well, almost everywhere.

But mostly, you’ve just got them,
Wrapped around my heart.

When the sky laughs its' booming chuckle, I wonder.
I wonder whether you dance in the rain
or sleep soundly thanks to the constant pattering.

Do you look forward to the sunshine breaking through
or do you welcome the sadness and grief it brings?

Do you wish the rain would never stop,
so it can wash away all that has ever hurt you?
Or do you pray that it never rains,
so you are never reminded of the pain?

Is the downpour a megaphone,
shouting to the world how you feel inside?
Or do you use it as something to dull the hurt,
a strong tonic to nullify all things evil?

I want you to love the rain,
Love the rain the way I do,
And stand in it to drown out
that stain of weariness.

Stick out your tongue sometime
When you get the chance.
Catch a raindrop
and embrace the freedom that it brings.

Do this so when we meet,
We can dance together, soaking.
the clouds will laugh, I’ll move
the beautiful sopping hair from your eyes.

I want to share our first kiss,
in the middle of a hurricane.
And hold you tight,
So there is nothing but us and the rain.

I feel the meat of myself, the fleshy bits of personality
Setting with purchase once again to the skeleton foundation
Left bare for a time. A great, terrific wave of life, the amalgamation of
Grief and loss and love and duty and exhaustion that
Time blended together all at once and rushed toward
That current of fragile self. That crashing, toiling weight tearing
All but the sturidiest pieces of who I thought myself to be,
Washing them to their sedimentary settlement Bygone.

Now a hungry, rattling, airy thing I am, shouts and drools to be fed.
A present of consumption is at hand, and who I am but a servant
To the needs of me? The bones need meat to feel whole,
Fill holes, and it matters not from what source that marrow
Drinks, and chews, and gouges. A season of fat shall come,
And bones sing to the insulation and warmth it will bring.
Let me be whole again, and the new me brace for life's next wave.

An age old question,
Not one of little note.
When one side risks repression,
We see nothing or hear what's wrote.

A picture's worth a thousand words,
But does it really take that many?
I could tell of singing birds,
For the cost of one whole penny.

They sung and laughed and fluttered hard,
As far as little wings could carry,
And surely soon they let down guard,
Their feelings could not tarry.

But as certain as that stanza spun,
A picture in our heads,
Nothing's like when paint does run,
And those brush strokes sew like threads.

So pen or brush or sculptor's tool,
Strike swiftly while the iron's hot.
There's only one way to show a fool,
For them to say some kind of art, is not.