I adored you before I knew,
You hummed Sinatra
In the bathroom.

Lusted when
I didn't know, you only
Accepted a flower in full bloom.

Loved before,
I knew you hated
Your nose.

I adored you before
You told me,
You needed sand between toes.


Before I found,
Your eyes watered when it was
A little too bright.

Before I knew,
You climbed trees when you were young,
Jumped, hoped you'd take flight.

I loved you
From the smirk in your faces,
And wrinkles in your brow.

I loved, I love you,
Even though you still ask
Me how?

Have you ever been to Glendalough,
On the Wicklow mountains tour,
Well I suggest you go there,
If you've never been before,

It's beautiful, serene and angelic,
So peaceful with magical air,
You can sense the spirits and history,
Of all who once lived here,

I walked around the glass like lake,
I wandered in its awe,
I felt the presence of many souls,
I had been here before,

I drank the waters from my hand,
I felt it rush through my veins,
I heard the whispers from the trees,
Welcoming me home again,

The settlement and graveyard, still,
No life that carried on,
Except for all the visitors,
Who called in thousands, upon,

But in my heart and eyes so blue,
I knew, I was home again,
I felt secure and welcomed back,
But things where not the same,

No family there to hold me tight,
As they had once, in my dream,
So I left my home, my Glendalough,
And the beauty I had seen,

One day I will return, it's true,
And I will not be alone
I'll walk amongst the stones and trees,
And then, I will be home.

A callous darkness hides in the
Haze of your burnished body
You run your icy fingers through
My gossamer hair and a hazel fuzziness
Leaks through your chocolate eyes.
I mutter silent requests of mercy
As your intrepid skin steals into the
Fragility of my crystal soul, reducing it
To splattered relics of harrowing passion.
Your lust burns like spilled neglect
And tastes like rotten coffee;
With every painful sip that strikes
My lips, it sings  like a sonnet of love
And with every tepid sip that incinerates
My throat, it burns like a gentle eulogy.
You’re the parchment, stealing the
Expressions of my artless love, and
the obsidian ink tattooing my fragile heart
With gestures of an intricately
Woven melody of a foreseen loss.