Confession brought on those grey clouds
     It brought on those frozen winds
     Millions of icy flakes with the fury of the Weatherman
     Trying to wedge me apart from you to no avail

Our conviction is fueled by our affliction
     But this is not how we think

What matter how those flakes assault
What matter if the breeze be harsh
     And whipping on our faces
     Our jackets zipped
     Our hats pulled snug
     Our boots securely laced
Not all this Storm would quench the fire
     Burning all the night

The sun is streak-
ing through empty
air.

Revealing an
abundance of
dust.

In my bed I
lay and ponder
you.

As the clouds approach, the night loses not its sound, nor its shallow breath. Instead it sits in waiting for the moon to reappear. The whistling wind whispers to me. Its secrets send goosebumps down my whole body. I let myself fall backwards freely. I hit the grassy ground with a solid thud. For a brief moment I throw my breath into the wind. Quickly my lungs catch it and fill me back up with cold November air. I am freezing. Icy gusts playfully pinch my bare arms and legs. In the frigid New Hampshire winter, I wear an ironic t-shirt and rolled khaki shorts that barely covers half of my body. My lips press against the bottle and I imagine it was you. The cheap *** no longer tastes, for it has numbed my tongue. That is why it no longer hurts to say your name. Again and again I give your name up to ****** in the hopes that he will carry my voice to you. The clouds pass and leave this night behind, revealing to me the stars. For millennia the stars have held the same spot in the night sky, spending eternity surrounded by the same few stars. I imagine spending an eternity surrounded by you. The wind has stolen the moisture from my mouth, so I wet my cheeks with another swig and one more for good measure. I can feel the brown liquor warm my insides the same way you did. The stars are twinkling now, like the blinking lights downtown. My thoughts are diluted by my neighbors cheap liquor and my head is spinning. The glistening cosmos remind me of the flashing monitors. The sirens in the background sound like the beeping machines. The cold glass bottle feels just like your hand did in mine. The feeling in my gut is just as sharp. My chest still feels like a locked door, unable to open or close. I polish off the bottle with one long gulping sip and hold it firmly to my chest like I used to hold you. I let my body go limp just like yours did, the image of which still engraved so deep in my mind like your name in that stone. I shut my eyes and I pray through flowing tears that the freezing night will reunite us for eternity, just like the stars.

I'm not split like Jekyll & Hyde
I wouldn't say I've got two faces
but if we get to talking,
Of course, there's some things I'm gonna try to hide.
We all have secrets buried in our minds
And we all get nervous when the conversation hits too close to home

I think I'm more like an iceberg.
There's a part of me that stays above the surface
And everyone sees it.
But here's the thing about icebergs;
They're mostly underwater.

The stuff inside me is a technicolor spectrum
From the softest pinks to the reddest reds.
I go from the lightest yellows to the deepest blues
And all the hues in between
I am a miracle and so are you

But our monochrome iceberg skin
Only serves to cover up the colors that we hide within

So there it is.
Maybe I don't have two faces
But I do have two sides;
Outside and in.

While it's true that some hide more than others do,
The things that I hide
Might not even matter to you.

So why is it hidden?
What's keeping it underwater?
Well, every time I try to surface,
I end up thinking of my mom and father.
And so there are parts of me that will stay forbidden.

But it's more than just them isn't it?
My friends and family
The occasional random visitor to my sea ice castle
That for the last 19 years has only grown more and more submerged

I guess none of us know what we're afraid.
Or maybe it's just that,
The fear of the unknown.
That what lies beneath will lead us to be alone
But what's fear ever done?
Sure, it's helped us survive
But can it let us truly live?

When I'm 95, I don't want to look back
And see fear, see regrets, secrets,
Any of that

I wanna look back and see
The technicolor tapestry
That lives inside of you and me.

The dead captain quietly fights the reef.
Ooh, desolation!
Endurance, death, and endurance.
Never love a seashell
More than the glinting sunshine

Dust was covering
The faded picture of you
That sits on my desk.

Streaking across my
Face, the sun is setting now
But we'll stay awake.

Books are stacked neatly
Upon your wooden shelves.
One day they will be read.

Tonight though, we just
Stay up and talk for hours.
Diving deep into
Our own minds

You were you.
a man with shades of darkness that consumed.
A man with hands that loved
but fingers that dealt
instead of feelings that felt.

I was me,
a boy with eager optimism.
A boy with firecracker emotions,
and all you ever did was set me on fire,
but how could I ever mind with those loving hands.

You were a man with a distant sweetness,
reminiscent of honeysuckle,
of the pine needles strewn upon the ground
upon which I now stand.
Perhaps more tasted in the air than smelled,I inhale deeply
with the vapor wafting unseen on the breeze.

Trees stand lifeless,
their wood dry and white
the bark once clung desperately to the wooden knots of the timber
just as we had once clung to one another.

The sun of the new morning streaks in slim rays
between inhabitants of the dense woodland.
The aftermath defined beauty.

No animals hunt,
no birds call.
Instead the crunch of our feet
upon the twigs and leaves
that litter the understory
echo across the vast forest.

Mosquitoes do not even fly
through the breeze
which you once made sweet for me.

My spine runs para

llel to the floor be

low me. My eyes feel

heavy. Slowly they

close and welcome

the nightmares

A freezing cold breeze playfully pranced across the room from the slightly open window. The January air scampered over my face and pulled at my skin, sending a wave of goosebumps that rapidly spread out from their icy epicenter. Reluctantly I shuffle over, placing each step more carefully than the last so as not to fall over and succumb to one of many dizzy spells I had experienced that day. As I reach for the window lock, I give into impulse and open it further. The cold winter air no longer was a relaxed breeze but now an assaulting gale force wind, knocking over stacks of papers as it raced into my once comfortable bedroom. The cold wind hurts, but this is the kind of benign pain that you can easily become addicted to. Leaning forward, elbows resting upon on my once pristine windowsill and face poking out of the rear of my family’s home, I appreciatively look upon the miles and miles of land beyond the small opening of the window in which I stood last. Directly below me, I observe the curious case of mums and tulips still blooming deep into the Northeastern winter. Shocks of orange, yellow and crimson peak up from the vast expanse of white and frozen snow. My eyes blink rapidly now, to compensate for the dryness brought on by the persistent wind, drying my eyes and harassing my face. Again giving into impulse, I raise myself up. I plant my feet upon the old and worn windowsill and firmly grasp the edges of the window. Now I am at least three stories above the miracle flowerbed and I contemplate all the things that could send me swiftly barreling towards the magnetic draw of the blessed soil beneath me. I could become victim to insufficient support from the small overhang upon which I now stood. Yet another violent dizzy spell could fall over me, causing me to lose control of my grip and balance and drop into the beauteous blossoms. The final scenario which prompts me to climb back into my room and re-introduce my self to the inviting warmth of a fireplace was more disturbing that the last. I imagine if I just give up and let myself fall and embrace the logic defying flowers as we rush to meet each other. Before I reenter my bedroom, I hear my door close. I turn to be confronted by a faceless, glowing figure. His presence stunned me, rendering me immobile, caught mid climb. I was entranced by the movement of the genderless figure. So entranced that I had not realized that it was racing toward me, not quite running but not quite floating. The distance between us decreased instantaneously. The figure had some hand like extremity that made a violent pushing gesture. The figure, despite having not touched me, managed to push me just slightly off balance. I now teetered out of the window, still frozen in my mid climb position with only one leg inside my bedroom. The teetering led to weightlessness. I was thrown out of my home by the vague and indescribable figure and sent out of the window. This unanticipated end was one of great distress as I descend towards the impossible flowers, slowly flipping as my head shifts toward the ground so that my resting memory would not be of anxiety and fear, but of clarity as those winter flowers grew and grew until they consume my entire field of vision. For a split second I can feel the impact as a series of cracks and pops ascend toward the heavens. The flowers disappear, the faceless figure was gone, the miles of empty land were no longer there. All that remained there was Nothing.

The coffee has a shockingly bitter taste because I let it boil far too long.
The pictures that I painted aren’t as pretty as they once were.
I still tell jokes, but they’re never as funny as they used to be.
And after all these years, the music that I play is hackneyed.
But still the stars shine on all these things.
And the sun still sets regardless if they’re good or bad.
And I know me.

I never understood the red light at an empty intersection.
I’m the only one there, and still I'm forced to stop.
But the light changes fast, just like everything else.
But the red lights add seconds, even minutes to my clock,
when all I need is one instant to think.

The radio showed me the blues when I was 13
Those songs took me by the hand and said
‘Life may be a party but there are things your young eyes haven’t seen’

‘There are things in this world that you could only dream,
but kid you're still young and possibilities are bursting at the seams’

The Blues, that wild woman, she burned my mind.
She handed me the bottle of whiskey
and so the taste was made
and it was bittersweet.
Her voice was so soft but filled with regret.

Life’s a party that just goes all night
I remember when all my questions had answers
but now thoughts have no reply

My last dime is on some snake-eyes
but when they come up unlucky
the train leaves the station
and I know my wallet looks empty,
but trust me its full of time
and now I've got 36 days, 17 hours and minutes to spare

So when I’m driving around on an empty road
and the light hanging above me turns red,
I’ll know exactly where those seconds go.

I’m stuck to the wall
Stuck to the stool below me
Stuck next to the empty fish tank that’s thinking out loud

The couch is looking for me
But the wall has me in her grasp

I remember my life when I was free
But I don’t long for the sun on my face
nor do I miss the grass between my toes

What I miss is roaming my house freely.
Lurking in the kitchen well past midnight.
Walking into the bathroom just for the hell of it.
Sprawling out on the floor and watching the dust bunnies dance while I blow under the fridge

I miss my life as a free man.
Maybe one day I’ll be home again.
But for now, I’m shackled to Sheetrock

Water laps upon the rocky beach, surrounding us with white noise.
Birds above us call and sing out to one another in repeating patterns which we have both heard before.
The wooden dock beneath our bare feet is darkened by the overwhelming saturation, which drips rhythmically into the frigid lake
In the springtime breeze, your hair blows, submitting to the wind with every gust it lays upon us.
This is the image of you I will never forget as we splash down the soaking dock, making our way to the boat.

The rushing water that beats against our beach and the pale, underwhelming sky which keeps the sun from drying off our dock.
We were slaves then, to the lurching world, where the only consistency is inconsistency.
The dark waves withdraw from the shore as we get into our boat and go, to a new and better place.

Our teacher taught us about beautiful places
With the blinds drawn shut so we could see them on the overhead
The face on the mountain has since been washed away
The oak tree outside the window grows tall and strong to this day

The Amazon is disappearing
The projects down the street are still there
Nestled between dry sandy lots and convenience stores

Antarctica is cracking and melting into the sea
But I still drive by the 3rd-grade classroom
And see that same rusted green Camry parked across the street

And those things are beautiful to me
But I'm the only one, it seems, to see how
The power of the everyday, the unremarkable
Can leave you that mark, the one called beauty

And maybe I'm wrong but I feel it's my duty to inform you
That tropical jungles and mountain vistas are just a burden
Right now my thoughts are sporadic like a finch indoors
So I just open up my window and let that bird out

And while my brain is poked outside
I just take a moment to notice that house across the street from mine The bluish one I could've sworn had shutters

I notice the browning grass underneath the AC
The cracks on the sidewalk where the tree roots once reached for the sky
I notice the marks on the road where the car swerved and skidded to a stop
To avoid the now cracked telephone pole
And I see how they never really fade away
I remember that he was so young when it happened
But that I was just a stupid kid
And I think about what each day means to all of us
And how beautiful that really is

O, lonely country road
I admire your twists
I obsess over your turns
My eyes touch every tree that passes by me
Or rather every tree that I pass

I’ll never forget the way the flies lit up in the headlights
Or the way they stuck to the windshield
An instant of pain
Followed by an eternity of paradise

You kept flowers in your lap
Our hands graze each other’s thighs
Barbed wire sunflower petals wrapped
around your beige body

People think it’s weird that you kiss whoever you want,
When they give you enough attention.
We like the boys who play with vapor
And the girls of our own invention

I remember hearing things slam next door
And listening to my neighbor cry
I never learned her name
Instead, I learned her sadness.

I only mention it because
You cry like her, murmuring
“God, I wish we never met”
I play with vapor
And question what you really meant