Sing for me,
wether good or bad,
cracked or too high pitched,
through tears or anger,
because I just want
to hear your voice,
in all the ways your voice
can sing or sound.

My love letters are written
in cherry scented lipstick
on bathroom mirrors,
and as poetry
you will never get to read.

Darling,
let me write my love for you
in kisses and bite marks
across the canvas of your body.
Let me pour out my devotion
with the caress of my admiration
and strawberry scented kisses.
Because darling,
I want to show you all the things
I know not how to say;
the sweetness and the pain
of being in love with you.

We are all addicts
for all the things in our lives
that we can't control.

I wonder how many versions
of me there are,
written as doodles in the margins
of hand-me-down school books,
a stranger in the background
of some other strangers photo,
as the phantom taste of a kiss
on an ex-lovers lips,
or even as old journals
filled with long forgotten poetry.
Who knows how many there could be,
or which one of them is really me.

And what of the old gods,
strong and powerful beings
they once were.
Do they still exist,
or did they fade away into obscurity?
Does belief keep them here?
My belief?
Maybe I should look closer.
In that dark bar,
a wine god a patron,
a protector of those who drink,
past their fill of bubbles,
stumbling and stupid,
led by soft hands still trying,
to form connections with lost worship.
And maybe death is not all that fearful,
if there is still a gentle voice,
to lead the way,
and be met as a friend.

Some people hate silence,
a cruel thing,
that brings with it loneliness,
long derived soliloquies of self torment.
Me;
I thrive in silence.
For, what other time can one sing,
and be heard by everyone,
and no one at all.