i look over black and white words, but this isn't what i want
this isn't the sanctuary i was looking for
my eyes gaze over it unnaturally and it
feels a little bit like a graveyard, which is okay
but it's not the graveyard i anticipated it being
and the question lingers
do i start digging again?
the untouched bodies groan at the shovel's presence
all they want is peace.
should i, then
interrupt the still ground
off to the side somewhere
give birth to a new set of disappointing graves
marking my territory
in the saddest way

my broken soul vanquished into
the trembling waters of your words
drifting through the tide and waiting
for the comfort, for which i have lusted so long
instead the deep just overtakes me
and i lose the battle against myself
i weaken into something else
all my pieces cast away
propelling towards different shores
leaded heart sinking deeper still
the freedom being that i am yours

spring's grip is wavering, a loose fist shaking
its cold chill reverberating like a puddle
ripples dissipating off to the edge and
disappear into the sunlight, fresh grass into parchment
and with it, I am smiling
at the radically new feeling of the season
of which we welcome year after year after year
and the feeling is indescribable, when
lying in the grass in a pool of sunshine
shaded by foliage, warm and cool all at once
and I know it is
a hug and a kiss from the very Earth

I miss you; your softness is waning,
you’ve gone rigid, deflecting every touch
and breaking out like madness rashes
tainting every fraction of a moment that
our fingers brush —
I hold it dear, my dear, your sweetness like
a flower fresh in spring so rare but still
routine, awaiting, always there
eventually, but curled up petals playing
hide-and-seek that only bloom awake
when no one else is looking.

the lavender blooms in a shadowed instant
while we stalk past along the path
its fragile strength surpassing ours
breath with no lungs
food with no mouth
as blessed as we are with eyes,
we pass over them, unblinkingly,
free beauty ignored.
no sparkling mist of smoke,
no flick of a wand,
but the progress, the process of  life
is a magic, the likes of which
we barely know.

“please make the pain stop.”
it was begging of the utmost
fruitless variety; you see,
the worst kind of torture is when
there’s no one to barter with,
there is no one to whom i can make this plea,
this plea of release and relief and just
oh please make this stop i won’t ask for anything
more if you just make this go away just take
it take the pain and never bring it back oh
please.
but the wind just whispers at the window and teardrops
raindrops stumble down the side of the house down
the window pane down my cheek and paper-thin
eyelids fall closed, pursed like my lips, wincing,
because it isn’t the desperation of the plea —
it’s that no one’s listening.