The person who does something that inconveniences them, but does it anyway because it’s important to you. The person that’s always there for you at the end of the day. The person that can’t wait to talk to you and listens to every word you say. The person who no matter the mistakes and the choices you’ve made, wants to be with you. The person who you call at two am and would drive over to hug you and talk to you. The person who wipes away your tears and kisses your tear stained cheeks. The person who would throw everything away, the person who knows and knows what you want without asking— that’s the person. That’s the person that loves you more than life itself. And if you have someone like that, don’t ever let them go.

I am at home here
among the green.
When sweet birds sing,
I know the song.
I find familiarity
in the slow way
things grow.
I look up
at the trees,
reaching branches
and feel as though
I have bark
of my own.
The petals of
the brilliant flowers
remind me
we are friends.
Nestled into
flickering patches of sun.
Dreaming of
wearing moss
for clothes.

The wind whispers
“you are always
welcome here.”

a cauldron bubbling
with toxic potion

butterflies with
dagger wings

breath wilting
like fading petals

a word spelled
too many times

a thousand takes
on a movie set

overthink
thinkthinkthink

I cannot seem
to completely describe
these twists
these ties
these ropes
these knives
these aches
these lies

She keeps songs
locked away in boxes
like secrets.
She will take them out
like postcards
to help her remember
the feeling of
a different time,
a different person
by her side.
She likes the one
that makes her
eyes close
to see the lights.
She smiles at
the one that  
makes her stand
up on tiptoes,
the one that
helps her forget
she doesn’t know
what to do
with her hands.

The tune
will carry her.

Like it did
the times when
voices broke
like a heart.
When instruments’ strings
would snap
and hurt.

When offered the gift
of myself, I no longer
seek the return desk.

we do not write poetry
we write mirrors
which are held up
to curious faces
who read
looking for their
own reflections

All I know
Is how
I feel

And sometimes I
Wish I
Knew nothing

I

In her eyes, he could see
the boisterous nature of life
the visions of future, and the scope of silence in between.

II

All I'm doing is, living off my resources: inside a storm, maybe.
Still death cannot be simplified and its contours lie within me, despite the scales before me.


III

A boisterous seeker, peripheral and pragmatic in conclusions, beginnings without answers: the stone that sought fire and wore it off in air.

IV

Maybe you know this,
Our *** is not intuitive not impulsive neither terse, not the least deniable: a cadenza to the violent soul of nature, our language and its mistakes impromptu every second.

V

Look! the landscape- its frozen miniatures configured within: dwellers on its ***** and creases, cheering the new sun, its sheer magnitude -the sum of their lives now, this moment.