...
Spare me, if you would

It's a foreign land but a familiar street,
red broken teeth and alabaster snow;
I remember it fondly.

Sober winter and blue cloth;
I still see us there.
I'm almost certain, that
St. Petersburg questioned our youth.
just a little closer
"Dance with me, Kirusha?"
Always

All those years ago,
and we still drink up this disease.
The sour love of iron and wine
with shots of homesickness.
Russian rouge
American Dream
"Why did you have to leave?"

I ache to recall it,
because those gates still leak with cold.
This value withers in the white noise;
"Don't you ******* dare say that his death was just an experiment."
'You failure'

I sought it,
the ribbons of old confidence
while the stars looked on from their chairs.
I never found what I was looking for.

Go ahead and criticize;
the way we baptized my betrayal.
Knot up all the love you wasted
and send it overseas.

All that matters to me, Romichka
is that Death paid no mind to you.

Ruby apples at my doorstep
flowers that need blood instead of water.
A sense of hunger in this forsaken city
does not comfort me.

I just suppose
I've been thinkin' too much
And the bitterness let itself in again.

So when you find the time,
Write whatever's left of me in the fire;
along with all the other things.
...

A smile generated by one thousand battery watts,
- Eyes as deep as the North Pacific Ocean which shine brighter than the North star.

- A mouth that blurts out words of authenticity and realism,
- A body sculpted by precise calculations,
- Freckles splattered on his face ranging from the size of Mars to to the size of Pluto.

- A mind absorbed in philosophical thoughts and the idea of love,
- Passion strikes his heart like a train racing on the tracks at the pace of a million miles per hour
~E.J.W~

I've never been in love
but I imagine it's kind of like
skiing on a glassy lake
in the fresh July sunlight.

Or the bellyache you get
from laughing for hours
uninhibited
head thrown back, eyes watering.

Or the thud of the ball
on the worn hardwood floor,
the soft swish of the net
when a shot meets its target.

Love is like a lot of things,
and darling, you're a symphony
of sounds and smells and tastes and feelings
I could never tire of.

So maybe I'm wrong.
Maybe I have been in love
with you, and this world, and everything in it

Because love is like everything
and nothing at once.
It's defined by its undefinability.

c.l.c

they don't tell you how it will feel
when you take off your jersey one last time
when you say your last team cheer
when you take your last bus ride.
well, maybe they tried to,
but I didn't understand.

because how can you tell me
the countless hours spent
in the gym, shooting with your dad
will be over in a matter of seconds?

how can you explain
the nostalgia that hits
when you play your last home game.
50 games. 50 wins and losses.
all a blur.
all over.

I'm ready to go, but afraid to leave.

c.l.c

I hope you find Your Happy.
the kind that makes your bones ache
and your eyes bright
and the wind into poetry.

I hope your laughter becomes the punctuation
at the end of every sentence
and
someone you love is there
to fill the gaps in conversation

I hope the Happy expands inside you
pressing from the inside out, stretching
like a balloon, until you float
above the dirt roads and grimy cities
and office chairs and phone calls

I hope the people take notice
and though they try to pull you down
you rise, and bring them up to meet you
and let them borrow some of your air
so you can float together.

I hope you come to realize
that Happy is poetic, too
and though this world is twisted, dark
there is always light somewhere
in every situation
every person
every town
if you know where to find it.

I hope you remember
that Happy is a choice
rarely easy, but always possible
and the world needs one less cynic
and one more dreamer,
and that person is you.

I hope you find Your Happy
and
I hope I find My Happy, too.

c.l.c