Fate has a pen name
She smiles wide as an ocean
Dances with the moon
She's got the whole world
wrapped in her arms
Fate gives away parts of herself
Sometimes to a fleeting lover
Other times to a silent morning
Fate writes me letters
I'm just trying to figure out
Which address is the right one

Disheveled and groggy, I wake to your smile as you calmly run your hand over your face.
Tired eyes meet mine and I welcome you.
I grasp my pillow when I am urged to hold you;
You are not mine.
Your eyes are focused on your phone and impulse begs me to take it,
throw it to the side,
and kiss you.
It beckons me to distract you from the hectic that has been your recent days.
I clench my pillow.
You turn your attention to me and ask what the matter is.
The anger dissipates from your clouded eyes when landing on me.
As dim as the room is, it reminds me of moonlight.
Soft, embracing.
Instead of responding, I trace the flames on your right forearm.
In this moment, I am warm.
You do not further in asking, instead you lean your head against mine and let out an exasperated sigh.
My free hand clenches my pillow.
Inside I am imploring,
"I want to love you how she never could.
"I want to love you purely.
"I want to love you wholesome."
Instead, I softly press my lips against the tattoo I was tracing.
Your fingers loosely find their way to mine, and we lay.
Quietly,
Comfortably.
I recite the moment I kiss your lips.
I plan it, step by step.
Perfectly.
Doubt drowns me out and while our lips are mere inches apart,
this is not the moment I will close the gap.
I instead bring my eyes to yours and scream every emotion I am feeling.
You grin softly at me and lay your head down, closing your eyes.
I lazily drape an arm across your chest and you drift off with an arm around me.
As you drift away to the sleep you **** well deserve,
I whisper all of the things I'd never tell
you
while you
were
awake.

Where did the artist go?
Not even she knows.
Is it depression that suppresses
those lifelong idealics
of stage and acrylics?

Has she broken from her cocoon
                                                       -too soon
still blind
to what she has become?

The artist wanders but does not wonder
The artist works but does not create
She nods her head but does not sway
She feels but does not write
She remembers the things she's supposed to want to do
but does nothing
                nothing
                nothing

the artist has gone,
she knows not where,
perhaps she refuses, this question, to ponder
for fear of learning
the artist has gone,
and shall not return.

I saw her shadow in eyes of golden flame;
Nothing to lose, something to gain.

She exhaled whispered promises, tendrils of sin.
Her cold lips smiled; insidious is her grin

She spun and spun with airy grace
But nothing fled the ivory mask, her face.

The snow fell softly under the pale moon;
I saw her within my mind far too soon.