The rain fell in semicolons that morning.
A small pattering and then a downpour,
Its vacillation was music to our eardrums.
All across my face were commas, marking tear trails
Which had long ago dried in the silence of sleep.
And in your eyes I saw the dreaded question marks
That I knew would come at dawn;
Should we have been more afraid?
What made us feel so empty?
Why did love
Sometimes hurt?

The ellipses poured out of my fingertips
As I brushed away your bangs.
My kisses were soft and punctuated periods
Across your forehead and nose and cheeks
Hoping to end the conversation, end the fear
In my heart.
I hoped that we could go together into the tomorrows
That were anxiously awaiting us

Two halves of parentheses,
Making one whole.

That summer dawned with fire in its heart.
Its eyes cried with moonlight and the dreams of the night,
So soft in their whispers and their catastrophes.
The sky burned bright with vivacity redder than the earth
And the drums of war rang out.

The red sprung forth in rivers on her cheeks
As she watched the men go silently into the sun;
Their eyes gleamed with glory and the soles of their shoes
With some sort of victory
They might soon be able to grasp between their fingertips.

And too, their bodies would be christened
With the sinuous springs of scarlet
There would be no hands with palms of tenderness
To wipe the salty tears from their bloodstained eyes
So that they may see the glorious fields of wheat,
And flowers (heads pointed to the sun)-
So that they may have a last glimpse of beauty
On a summer morn

If you could watch a plane crash in slow motion
You’d see a hundred lives slip away
Into the jet stream.
From row 17, seat B, you’d see
A freckled child lose their Legos,
Parents,
Youth.
And the man in row 22 would take one long, last
Look at his wife
And think only of love, love, love.
The overhead compartments will open
And spill out the wares,
The jackets that kept them warm
And the computers that once lit
With their life’s work
And thus, the world seems to shatter.
Do they cry? Do they have time?
Do they pray? Do they lose faith in God?
Do some gain it?
No one but the dead know the true tragedy.

As the tray tables dislodge
And the sky falls

The silence of the air is broken
by the stuttering symphony
of the clash of auto and road.
The once clear sky is whisked
with serene stratus formations.

In the valley of southern mountains
Our hearts clasp at the dream of destination.
A flannel-shirted fellow
sighs in his lullabies,
and hiking boot clad feet
patter at the wisp of his slumber.
Her sunny smile glitters
in spite of the looming,
grey peaks.

Simple joys of friends
and serenity
Paint our spring adventure

You have subconsciously immortalized yourself
On the ceiling of my room.
I didn’t know you, then.
We were just learning to hold hands and
Walk to the same rhythm and you didn’t know
How much my heart yearned for you.
You didn’t know that, then.
You bought me glow-in-the-dark stars
And we rushed home to stand precariously on the bed
Just for the sake of Orion’s Belt.
We turned out the lights and I showered you,
Sprinkling the tiny illuminations all over your soul.
We stargazed and cuddled close until our eyes
Started to gently close
And under the warmth of what must have been a thousand
Beams of light
I believe we began

Knobby knees and coffee shops
Have been married since before time
Was.
Hipsters with their progressive politics
And symbolic lyrics and
Witty banter
Deem themselves worthy of macchiatos
On Tuesday mornings.
And the tiny tables creak with
Liberal arts degrees and sugar and
Cream.
Tibetan prayer flags slip out of pockets
Onto a floor scuffed by Converse
And bare, raw feet.

And if you, too need salvation in the form
Of caffeine and dreams,
Come on in-
Even if your hair is straight and perhaps
You don’t have a clue
About ethnocentric ideas of beauty-
Open the door, order your addiction,
Sink in.
Your knobby knees will fit just right.

It’s the kind of night for a midnight shower
Because being naked makes me feel more human
Than babysitting a textbook at my bedside.
Because the slow and methodical nature in which
I shave
Makes me feel dangerous and foxy and downright
Beautiful.
Because the chill of the air after the temperate water
Turns me on more than any history book,
Filled with yesterday’s news,
Ever could