"...But truthfully I'd rather stare at your hands. I enjoy how they never shake the way mine do as though I've been carrying an object as heavy as my heart for too long; but they're always empty. I enjoy the way you wrap them around pencils, and coffee cups with a tight grip. I like the way you make it seem like you don't let go very easily. I used to rest in weak hands. I used to slip through the fingers of people who shook me off while I held on as though my life depended on them. I think the problem with the way I live is that I often never give myself the satisfaction of controlling whats mine. I'm not strong enough to make anyone stay. I'm not good enough for them to ever want to. I've lived with this reality making home in my mind but there's something about the way you looked at me this morning; kind of the way an artist looks at a finished canvas in total awe. Maybe that was the moment that I realized that I should probably stop staring at your hands and make love to your eyes. The way the light up as though you've been swallowing lightning bugs. The way you never hesitate to let them linger. The way their blue reminds me of the walls of my grandmas house that was built up with hands that look just like yours. I like the way you stare even when your blood isn't laced with alcohol. Almost as though I'm the painting that no matter how long you look at it; it still remains beautiful. The truth is, my walls are covered in love letters and poems written for someone I never knew... that was until I met you."

It's when you wake up.
It's the first inhalation of breath that brought you back to consciousness.
It's the first physical sensation that occurs,
The first thought that sparks.

It's how you wake up,
be it tangled in another's limbs,
when you kiss despite morning breath and dry lips.
Or be it promising yourself you'll get back to bed as soon as you're able,
Trying to convince yourself you're still stable, and that you'll make it through another day.

These mornings blur recklessly,
I hardly remember who I am.
I am ready to wake up feeling home again.

she’s the girl who will remember everything. from your birthday, to the story behind that scar on your left arm, to the number of freckles on your body.

she will love every inch of your body and your soul and even the heart you didn’t know you had.

she will take in everything you have to offer and give you back so much more. so much, that you won’t even know what to do with it.

she will open up the world for you. from books and music and film to things like culture and race and language.

she’s smarter and far more beautiful than she dares herself to show.

and you will love her.

you will love her like you’ve never loved anybody before.

she will level every winter your body has suffered with all the springs her bones have weathered.

and when you go, because you can no longer handle her, she will drown herself in alcohol and drugs and sorrow. and wonder why she wasn’t good enough.

she will refuse to be saved by any other hand because nobody can touch her quite like you.

she will **** herself with loneliness and then resurrect with her own scent.
and then she will do it again.

and again.

and again.

and again.

she will be weak and strong and bold and shy and mean and nice and everything in between.

she will grow. she will grow strong and tall.

and so will you.

and in ten years from now, when you run into her at the supermarket, she will ask about your marriage.

and while you’re there telling her about your wife, who is home with the kids, and your job, she will feel genuinely happy for you.

because she forgave you. she forgave you for walking away and she forgave herself for ever thinking she wasn’t good enough.

she will have realized by then that sometimes life will give you somebody just to watch you break when it takes them away from you.

and she will be okay with it.

and so will you.

but, she will walk away without telling you about her life because she doesn’t want you to hear it in her voice that she still remembers your birthday, and that birthmark on your right shoulder.

and that ten years ago, she had hoped you would run into somebody else and told them all about her being at home with the kids.

I collect stones from the places I visit. It's like a bargaining thing. I give that place some part of my soul, a sweet memory and in return I keep a stone.
I like to believe that when I'll be gone, these stones on my grave will guide you to all the places I have ever been to so you can visit them and hear tales about me from the winds of different lands.

I go back and
forth from
knowing
love is real
and does not
exist at all

but for a moment
usually right before
the sun sets at dusk
and there's a veil of
light flooding
the sky, a blushing
pall of pink

I feel the pull of
ecstasy;
the magnetizing force
of longing in
sleepy hues
of orange and ginger
where the thought of you
shields my skin.

so what is gravity,
if not love
and a sunset,
if not love,
and this life,
if there is not love
to watch the sunset and
know that I exist.

People are always saying
"expand your horizons"
and I'm trying to do that

I'm trying to meet
other painters
and I am talking to
strangers in stores

and I am imagining
flying to Spain
and making meetings
in the market place
where the misters
soothe my skin
when sunny streets
are scalding

These stories are
seldom told
where I'm trying to come
out of my little ol' shell
and expand, stretch
my wings and take
up the space I was made
for.

I see all these people around
broken, trying to fix
themselves in different ways.
From drugs to
stranger's bed.
Everyone is busy in
fixing themselves.
They succeed in hiding the scars
in the daylight
but little do they know
that the scars glow
in the darkness of
drunk and lonely nights.

No streetlight penetrating the double-paned glass from the outside tonight,
just a faint flicker, faltering
in the hollow of my chest
to illuminate the room.

Dim shadows cast are drawn with
menacing cartoon faces-
they laugh animatedly.

There is
so little light
when you are alone-
sometimes.