Tomorrow the sun will rise again
Such is the inevitable march of time
Brief is our time here
Especially in this hurried digital age
Proof of our existence only buoyed by those who whom are true to us
                                                                ­          as we hold them the closest
Even despite the grand shadow of our own self perception
The life I've lived, being so full of irony of it's own sort
The greatest being that I could never convey to you,
                                                                ­          nor to the world
The great fortune I found when I met you
Even if I could proclaim to this unworthy world,
                                                                ­           who would take notice?
How, when most of us know so little of ourselves,

                             much less from a man they've never met
                                     from a place they've never heard of
                                           about a love they couldn't hope to dream of




For her name was Teresa

Sometimes, I hear a song
through someone
else’s headphones,
 too quiet to name
 but loud enough to feel.

I never ask what it is.
Letting it stay anonymous
 feels more honest.
It’s not mine.
I was just near it.

A violin behind a closed door
  in an apartment I’ll never enter.
Footsteps on an old wooden floor above me
  like a rhythm nobody meant to write.
A man humming in the metro
  not to perform,
  but because he’s alone
    and forgot the world has ears.

There are moments I’ve been completely undone
  by a melody I never fully heard.

Half of it lost to the train.
Half of it blurred by walls.
But something in me
  was tuned
    just right
      to catch what escaped.

We think music is what’s played.
But maybe it’s also what passes through
      when we weren’t looking.
      When we didn’t try to hold it.
      Or name it.
      Or own it.

For the time is not mine to keep
Impassable mortor keeps me at bay
The smell of fear like the waves of high tide
crashing upon the rocky shore that was my life
My judgment was passed before your words were spoken
Oh, my love- how I bleed for you
Is that your blood as well?  Do you shed for me as well?
I have left nothing
Proverbial dust in the wind
For it is not for everyone to leave their stain upon the play

My body is the vessel in which your story shall be known
Pages of flesh, written into decay and eventually, the earth
My soul, laden with the stains of my own admonishment is where your sins will be laid to bear
When the hands approach thrice, vengeance will be so swift
When the arm reach up for the trinity, the viscous brutality of my vengeance will be unmatched if not only by it's own depravity and indifference
When the clock strikes three, and the darkness of your chambers begin to close in all around you and you hear the whispers of what you already knew
It will be in that moment, in the moment that is yours and yours alone that you will know

What is a memory?
What is a thought?
Is it the fear of losing the trees to the sky?
Is it the darkness inside out?


The pain clouds my thoughts, closing in
I cannot bleed, cannot hemorrhage
Cruel irony runs through my veins now
And hate
My mind races with the corruption of fear
I am no longer me
I am no longer you
I am


If I were the sun and you were the ocean,
     we could meet at dusk and drink of each other
in bliss and warm familiar chaos
Will you die to me?