It begins when a
butterfly dies. My stomach
is an insect grave.

But if I just
stay in bed
for the rest of today
and tomorrow
and the day after

and if I just
not care about studying
for anything and if I just
keep the words inside
and let them rip my veins
and shred me apart

and if I just stop fighting
the pain or if I just stop
moving maybe then
just maybe
I will become too numb
from feeling too much
and I will cease to feel

because all there is right now
is pain and hurt and frustration
and when they are asleep,
happiness is awake

but my happiness is
too fragile, and
like a stranger in a coffee shop,
it has its own depression.

Nightfall
and I cannot get over
the architecture of you

I could draw your fingerprints
from memory
with rainbow crayons

paint
how you scrunched your toes
like yesterday’s paper

whenever the water
threatened to soak
our undressed feet

We are here
talking about
anything everything

nothing at all
your words are my wine
I want to sip every drop

ask for another bottle
in the coal-black silence
and get smashed

wake up tomorrow with sand
strewn through my fringe
a silly smile or two

forget what is not
on this beach
and know only now

the tone of the waves
hue of your lipstick
beat of our hearts

It's in these small moments
When you least expect it.
A burst of gratitude
For all that you haven't.
And inversely,
All that you do -
So have my thanks
For being you.
My friends
Are there
When I'm
Not here.

This man; His heart was close to frozen
And forever ached for time to thaw it.
He had worked on his warmth-wont wall
So that no one could ever hurt him.

His hands held the kinds of worried warmth
Known to men who were short on time,
As if life was merely granted, not given
And could be taken at proper sign.

So he slowly started to lose himself
In the wild winters of an improper world,
Growing numb to others troubles,
But then he met the girl -

And she beautifully betrayed him,
So his walls were brought back in force.
To never again let the sunlight in,
To never let emotion beget remorse.

What would you say to me
If I told you that all things
have a name?

A name, created forever ago-
A name singular, secret and sacred-
A name that grants form?

What if I told you
that if you cried out
The Name of the Moon,

You could bathe at mid-day
under its dappled, failing shine-
playing partner to its light?

That if you called to the skies
you could surround yourself
with a span of azure infinity,

Paint sun-songs with hidden words,
Or caress cloud-worn creations while
floating in blue nothingness?

To think; You could merely utter
The Name of Oceans - That
vast implication; You could

Summon distant, breaking shores
for your own inspection and approval-
To satisfy the simplest curiosity?

Would you say it was a fantasy?
Something grand to ponder;
And then regretfully forget?

That to strum the chords of creation
with key-words and mere intentions,
Is a blasphemy?

But what if... What if
I spoke to you the Name of Love,
As soft as daylight-sighs ending?

Would you scoff at my audacity,
To arrogantly manipulate its meaning
by not letting it go free?

Or would you realize, and see-
That despite all that power, I can't find
the name for what you mean to me?