you caught me
balanced on the chair
like an ether-drinker
living feverish dreams
in the depths of your sympathy

and the bleeding page
told everything
i couldn’t stand to speak
a pendant from the rafters
and the chorus
of your turning key

you bleed on me,
leaving bruises on paper skins.

scratched me,
i opened up wounds for you.

Love didn't end wars
It started them

Still water
resting
at the
bottom
of a
Pacific ocean
tide
pool,

reflections
of you
in my
mind
in the
Sunday
morning
light.

sometimes
I can imagine
I hear you
laughter
carried in
harmony
to me
on a
a salt-kissed
circling
wind.

and I
sit for
a moment
and smile.

I always
smile.

it is
a giving
thing that
you do.

your gentle
manner
of truth
and innocence.

I can always
feel it
there in
you eyes...

you are


where
good  poets
go to
die.