Looking into your eyes at 5 am wondering how we made it through the night.
But looking into your eyes has given me the answer.

I tell you I love you and you say "okay"
You tell me you that you don't know what you want. I say "okay"
You tell me I'm not physically pleasing and I need to change. I say "okay"
I tell you ill change. You say "okay"
You tell me "can you spend the night?"
I say "no"

Friends don’t look at each other that way.

Releasing endorphins

Every fiber of you
       still lingers
          in every fiber of me.

The clock ticks while your once soft tight skin sags around the corners of your mouth.
The smooth feeling of your forehead now aligned with the signature of age.
My eyes stay fixed with your lovely brown as you grey.
I will always love you.

You'll have moments when you think you're over it
Then you'll have some where you're crying on the bathroom floor at 2 am.

When you’re an artist you’re taught to critique masterpieces.
“What could you change about this piece?”
“Can you identify the medium?”
“What is the artist’s message?”
I’ve gutted dozens of artworks.
I ran through the lists identifying the
flaws and pin pointing the meanings.
But then I was struck with a piece
so beautiful that not even God
himself could view it for too long.
I searched for any flaw, I looked for the medium and was unlucky in my persuit. Though my peers could easily critique the piece, I could not.
The more time I spent with this art
It became even harder. So I started
searching for a meaning.
What was evident in my search was to stop looking. I figured I needed this piece in my home, but the price was far too high for my income.
I saved every penny I had, but with he competing bidders the price just rose and I fell short. Plagued by grief I finally realized that when you crave something so wonderful and unforgettable, you must keep trying to hold it dear.
From that day on I have not critiqued another piece, I’ve found my job unsatisfying.
I’ve been given a choice to let the piece go, but how could I let something so angelic fall into the crevices of hell?

I'm tired of finding a home and having it torn down while I'm chained to the tree in the yard and I can't quite meet the fragile pieces. My house was built on concrete and sinks like it was built on sand.
Maybe it's me who's built on sand, maybe I'm just designed to sink. Maybe I shouldn't be clawing my way up back to the surface. Maybe I should just be consumed.