They told me,
The kind of person I am, is good.
I asked them if they meant my because of my art,
They simply patted my shoulder, "You're not like them darling."
Who are they,
The people you say are bad?
I saw no one different than me at the showcase,
We were all humans who gathered to show off our art.
Of course, I know what they meant,
I just couldn't believe they'd say it.

Oh Liana,
Your name spills from my mouth,
Like classical music in an empty auditorium.
For the room must be empty,
Because if you were here with me you'd notice my affection,
Right?

Never mind, now I know,
You could never be you for you,
You wouldn't even be you for me.
It's not my fault,
But if it isn't, why does it hurt so bad?
You were the one thing I wanted,
You were my one and only dream.
I put you in front of my needs,
I ignored the water rising to my eyes.
I ignored the feeling of my heart dying inside,
Just for you, Liana.
I did everything for you,
You did nothing for me.
I don't blame you,
I know why you couldn't.
But darling please,
When I say I love you could you at least respond to me?

The wind chimes clink a sweet melody, blown by the soft evening air.
The fire is dying in the hearth as we say our good nights.
Some head out to the porch to listen to the sounds of the night,
Though I and the others head off to bed.
A coyote howls out in the forest, maybe on the cliff I found walking earlier.
My bedside candle is lit as I open my book.
As I read I listen to the calls of the owl, asking “Who is still out there, on this starry, cold, night?”
I blow out the flame and shut my book just as I hear them coming in.
I turn my head on my pillow and slip off into silent slumber.
Wondering what the next dawn will bring.

Slipping soundlessly into sound,
Is the dancer,
Moving in motion so proud.
I regret the times I didn’t see,
The true amazement she could be.
Instead I saw her uncut form,
Raw emotions,
Which I responded to with stabbing thorns.
It wasn't enough that I returned to you,
Bearing a bouquet of apologies.
Because I loved to hold you,
You loved to be held by me,
I needed attention, I thrived on greed.
Now I hold nothing,
Because you left me.
Slipping soundlessly away,
Leaving forever,
Now I remember you as a fading tune.
God I love that song,
Oh, God, I loved you.
Why do I portray your voice,
As a flute,
Silver, portraying tunes.
Nothing more,
We weren't meant to be.
But sometimes I wonder, how do you portray me?

I have not been to Mexico,
But I hear the nights are beautiful.
I know you’ve seen the Puerto Rican bays,
When the water’s waves are weaved with stars.
But does it match the soft spoken nights in Mexico?

My friend you are,
But little do I truly know of you.
Like a Mexican night I’ve only heard,
But never seen.
I know that you shine brightly,
Like stars in Puerto Rican waves.
You just don’t show your value in glittering waters,
More in a dulling gold.

But I believe,
That what I do not know of you is simply a glory worthy story.
That you are deeper than a South-American key,
More to tell than just simple things.
I know you as a man,
As the loyal friend.
But what I do not know strains for my attention.

For you have a great story,
One of which I must pursue.
I know you are indifferent to your inner light,
I told you I must draw out your inner truth,
In order to tell of you.
You simply shrugged,
Said, “Write it as it should.”

But this is how it should be,
Speaking of your hidden glories.
And owing you apologies.
For the times I swore to you,
Upon an empty hand.
As well as the times I had prodded at your identity.
Maybe you do not accept,
Maybe you do.
It never really mattered,
We’ve bonded like kin.

After studies in sciences,
I await waiting kindness.
For never have you cared what others had told of me.
So still we wait at the trees by the street,
Awaiting a brother,
Awaiting your mother.

I still recall the weekend we vacationed away,
In the heart of freedom’s way.
To others it was a city,
To us it was amazing.
Late nights late,
To meet the pace of others in the group.
Questioning histories,
Like studies in theology.
It was early one morning,
Over coffee and hotel breakfast pastries,
That I told you, “I have truly nothing to write of.”
Then you suggested, “Why don’t you write of me?”

I was quite puzzled,
By what seemed a meager challenge.
But realizing by pen in candle light,
I had not a word to write.
For not enough I know of who you are truely,
To construct a truly meaningful piece.

So I did my best,
I chose to reflect what you mean to me.
As someone truly true,
With words you chose with choice,
Not merely of spite.
Every king needs his throne men,
And you are mine as much as I am yours.

Someday I’ll know all of your story,
Someday I’ll understand,
Someday we’ll trip to Mexico,
Spend a night alone,
With the silent soundings of a Mexican night.

Or maybe we decide,
That we ought to see,
The stars in the waves of a Puerto Rican bay.
Really it does not matter much,
As long as we travel as brothers.

Because we work as men,
But at heart we are boys.
Seeking something,
To please our childish hearts.

I know by now I’ve been thinking long,
Much too long of this wandering ponder,
Of us as great friends.
But I do know that it would do us good,
To spend a night sipping colored sodas,
On the dusk streets of Mexico.

For now though,
I’ll go back to wishing in whispers,
To know a night in Mexico.
On the roads of stained clay bricks,
Hopefully walking around, laughing, with you.

So I’ll see you after science studies,
Greet you with the same hello,
Because no great man walks alone.
I am great,
So I’ll walk with you.
Knowing us as friends,
Not a matter of where we are.
So goodnight to Mexico,
I have all the friendship I need at home.

I waited for hours in an office lobby,
Just for them to tell me there was no cure for what I was suffering.
I walked a mile,
In another man’s shoes.
So I walked to  another,
To the next doctor,
Just to be told again, that there was no cure.

Wendy; My shadow is too heavy, can you fix it?
Doctor; Shadows don’t weigh anything.
Wendy; Mine does.
And it’s getting bigger.

I waited again,
Yet still the answer was the same.
That there was no cure,
For the sad music I hear in my ear,
That makes me age hundreds of years.
It makes it seem like my mind is run by rusted gears,
It must be from storing the salt for my tears.

Mother; I thought you were sleeping.
Wendy: I was being sad.
…
Wendy; I’m not always sad.

I didn’t go to another office,
I ran out of ones to walk to.
Running is a concept I never understood,
Why are you always running from, or to?
Why can’t I just run,
Away from nothing, for I have nothing to run from.
To nothing, because I have no more things to run to.

Detective; Can you fly?
Wendy; I could,
I don’t think I can anymore.
Detective; That sounds dangerous.
Wendy; It is.
Was
Detective; What can you tell me about him?

Why can’t they make a medicine,
That makes you forget?
I don’t mean alcohol,
I just asked to forget, not to destroy the place in my mind where the memory was.
Why can’t they make a syrup,
It could taste like peppermint.
That you take at night,
And wake up and forget.

Wendy; I asked you to stay.
Peter; Did you?

People ask how scientists know it’s truly fall,
And people tell them about the Fall equinox.
That we know it’s Fall when the sun dips below the horizon,
On both halves of the globe.
That the coming of fall is when the people in the southern side of the earth,
Have spring.

That is how science knows it’s fall,
But how do we know the date, the hour?
I could tell you when fall is here,
But it won't be down to the minute.
I know fall has come when the winds turn cold,
And the leaves of the oak trees are bleeding.
When the streets are empty of the children playing,
When I sit on a fallen birch log on the beach,
Staring at the water, but I’m shivering in a flannel,
And the water is frozen over.
When i come home and the tea kettle is going,
But all the summer lemon tea is put away.
Little changes in these things, they will lead me astray.

The coming of fall.

That’s how I know the fall is coming,
Not by watching the hours of my days.
Not based on when the sun rises in Iran,
But by the feel of the winds,
But by the blood of the leaves.
And by the tears that have fallen,
On these empty streets.

The Fall Of Twenty-Twenty Four.