Lavender Destinies,
Buried deep in oak coffins,
Drizzled with the richest of honeys,
Fermenting like a deep, sweet wine,
Grinding deeply into a bitter reality,
Cocoa bean colored thighs,
Coupled with a love that caramelized like brown sugar,
Rooted deep in the very soil,
There was something so very empty about us,
Maybe it was loneliness,
Like a bitter fruit,
So empty and so alive,
The art of smoke,
A talent so vivid it is best seen in the dark,
Hearts softened like wax by the gentle light,
Cascading,
Such a harsh word for such a soft feeling,
Fireflies and twinkling embers,
That is your warmth,
Distant but full,
The ability to do nothing but freeze while the world burns.

She had a thousand faces,
Each hung and turned gracefully on a rack,
A rack that only she had the strength to balance,
And each of her faces spoke in a different tongue,
But when all thousand voices synchronized the harmony mimicked that only produced by love,
With a lavender scent and a porcelain face,
Royal embers burned in a powdery rage,
For behind every cracked white faith,
Is suspended a hidden strength.

Dripping like liquor down the throat of a man who has never been loved,
Clinging to a reality sweeter than any of those attainable,
A semi-conscious turpentine,
Thicker than molasses,
And darker than coffee beans,
Cocoa butter lips and thighs,
White sheets,
Atoning for white lies,
Hawaiian Snow,
Mango Swishers,
Hearts encrusted in sea salt and gold,
I'll tie you to my bed posts,
So I feel less alone

With you there were no ends,
Only rolling memories,
Movie endings missed,
And series left unfinished,
Fostered by a fear of letting go,
And a love of holding on.
Holding your bare body in the heart of all seasons,
Switching positions, postal codes, and presumptions,
But never ending,
You were forever in a moment.
A love that refused to die,
Even forgotten memories served a purpose,
Setting scene for events that would soon unfold.
I love you so.

You crumbled like a corpse underneath the facade of fresh rose petals,
Lavender pressed finger prints,
Like warm blood on cool cracked lips,
You are not in love,
But you are on it,
Like a drug that must be snorted,
Too sour to be swallowed,
And too hot to be inhaled,
Too good to be real,
And too much like a dream to be held.

What is your favorite holiday?
It was a question asked frequently,
Yet never could I provide a simplistic answer,
For wearing a mask had become an every day occurrence some time ago,
And my wallet was left dead after being assaulted by frequent gifts year round,
And I suppose the hardest part of answering,
Was that they did not know you,
They had not awoke to your fidgeting in bed,
And knew nothing of your never-ending warmth,
With sweet embraces and smooth words,
Every morning spent drifting in between dreams,
Waking up next to you became my favorite holiday,
And I suppose the season has died without you here.

I never forgot,
I could never forget,
Because you were and always will be my morning coffee,
You are cold hands and finger shaped bruises,
Two sets of bony hands intertwined,
You were just as much a part of me as you were in love with him,
You were every spider web thirsting and holding on to the morning dew,
The girl I loved was two bodies trying to fit in a space only meant for one,
You were beautiful,
Especially to me.
But you left,
You left cracks in the concrete,
You left your clothes unfolded,
You left all of your keys under the door,
Even the most durable flowers couldn't grow in the emptiness you left,
Please know I still watered them every day,
Even after you became the white paint pretentiously slapped over the graffiti we once painted,
A sea of green and blue,
You became everything we hated,
A soldier with few words,
I just couldn't fix you,
I cannot force the sun back into your eyes any more than I can tear my heart from my chest,
No,
That's something only you can do,
My impossible girl,
The only part of war that could hold my heart.

The words that existed my mouth were nothing like poetry,
Doused in cheap liquor and a series of muttered sighs,
These words were not love,
They weren't even lust,
They were nothing more than the feeling of emptiness coupled with your embrace,
An action that failed to feel ***** as it once did,
But still managed to reek of desperation,
This was not poetry,
And we a far from art.

I crawled into your bed last night,
I may have paid for it but you owned every last fiber,
With the comforter astray,
The pillows stacked,
The windows open,
And the lights warm like they were on the night I first told you I loved you,
It was was your bed.
And this heart in my chest?
That was yours too.

And as the star lights twinkled,
I struggled to fall asleep in the cold air that reeked of your absence.
This was hell in a home,
And home was something I could only find in you.

You told me I was safe in the moment,
Right there in that moment,
With warm skin pressed against mine,
And the tears could not help fall,
Because for the first time I felt safe,
And for the first time I understood the hopeless desire to make a moment last forever.

And I believe that all of these cliches fall out of a thing I call love for you,
And I will not breathe them to a single person,
Because no one will understand how looking a man in the eyes and hearing him say he looks at you and feels nothing,
Can take your breathe away,
And maybe its because you found someone who also feels nothing when they look at you,
So similar in heart that they love you the way you love your own reflection,
Not at all on most days,
And a little less when smoke has filled your lungs, the room, and every void left by the prior excuses you attempted to call love,
That you make an excuse,
To look past every red flag,
To lose sight at the thought of a warning label,
And drop into the only void you can find that seems deeper than your own.

So when I ask you,
What is love?
It is not fire,
It is not the ***** I keep in the empty bottles that you leave,
It is not ******* through the tears,
It is emptiness.
It is knowing that I need you even though our love has never been worth a single ******* thing

Please do not look at me with dead eyes,
My insides are already rotting,
In a parable of sweet immersion,
I just want your embrace,
I will remove the insects,
Let each crawl from my throat,
If you will just let me love you,
God,
Please don't leave me alone.

He was an artist,
But his greatest works did not line cold white walls,
Or lay scattered among the odds and ends of a cluttered desk.
No,
They made themselves known in every breath he took,
In every slight move of hand,
And existed consistently in those chocolate eyes that glimmered with specks of honey and gold,
Love was no longer an emotion,
But every second I felt the touch of your hand,
Watched the shadows dance across your face,
Watched the smoke roll from your lips,
Love put on a suit that looked an awful lot like you,
I don't know if you realized,
But I kissed your forehead every morning before I left.
While you lay enraptured with a slumber that even produced works of art.

There was something about the last train out of the station,
Or the last smile on your face,
That ensured I was lost,
Somewhere between the future and the pools that lay ever so calmly in your eyes.

After years of trimming sides and cutting edges,
There was little to give,
But much space for you to settle into,
Somewhere between my lungs - heart - and the shattered glass and mounds of ash that held each in place,
Little is it recognized that no home truly begins with a solid foundation,
Only after the home is built does one have the luxury of forgetting the uneven ground that once served as a rocky home to those unready to develop.

We speak often of polluted land,
But rarely of polluted intentions,
Laced with memories that destroyed the body more than the drugs themselves.

Restoration of the heart sits heavily on my mind,
Some parts of the disarray staining your finger tips,
As I realized you did not hold responsibility or a simple solution,
Simply the means to an end,
That felt much more like a beginning.

And as you slept calmly,
I wondered how violently the waves of your ocean,
Crashed into rocky shores,
And in what places you let your feet sink into the smooth sand,
What waves lapped at the edges of your soul,
And how long would it take for you to realize that the only waves you could control,
Were those created by the beat of your heart.

And how heavenly it would be to drown,
In your presence,
Caught by the very essence of the waves of smoke and sound that flowed from your very being,
Do you not realize how the rivers tend to the ocean?
How the moon loves the ocean so?
And what peace it brings to the wanderer to discover the depths of another's ocean and the edges of one's soul.

One cannot effectively love without words,
And pain is not permissible but in the absence of love,
So when cautioned against the love of a poet,
I must ask if you have tasted the bitterness of ink wells long run dry,
Felt the weight of lungs unable to expand to produce sweet parables of temporal immersion.

Every inch of land charted by arthritic hands,
Unable to pull wonder from what can only be systemic from a moment of pure ecstasy.

Yet,
In every action lies an unheard metre,
Energy captured in free verse,
As her name lie on pursed lips,
that caressed shaking thighs,
that bear different origins than the name they were bathed in,
Thighs that would know not the sound but the echo and presence of love,
When all the paper has been burned and the inkwells have all run dry,
Only the poet's tongue will trace the shape of forgotten words across lips and thighs alike.

The lonely will be lulled to sleep by the tales of galaxies that rest in their veins,
And the oceans that caress the corners of both eyes  and soul,
Long after the poet has retreated,
To build temples and worships other muses,
That sentiment is not gone.

The poet's love is neither temporary or fleeting,
But sporadic,
Making love to the moment in its entirety,
For there is nothing exclusive about a moment when written,
The deepest corners of compassion,
not so subtly displayed,
In strokes of tongue and hand,
Teased across the page in ******* and organic soliloquies.

The poet's love was never meant to be private,
nor painless,
Only permanent,
The wonders described never fading in the poet's absence,
Only continuing to ignite a flame that continues to burn.

An ever fleeting reality,
Too sweet to hold for long,
Gold honey,
Agave,
And sweet streams ever flourishing,
With Vision blurring at its edges.

The unease swims,
Amongst the seemingly clear waters,
We knew this was coming,
We meaning the person I believed myself to be and who I was at any given moment.

When the hare leaves its burrow,
Only to be returned by natural order
In all its physicality,
To which memory and tradition poured libation over a feast to the futilness of all new and old,
We are beauty to the blind,
Needless to all,
But artists and the dead,
Omit all hope,
Make love to the whorish nature of illusion,
And you will birth the most beautiful, still-born wisdom,
To the future of a ****** nation,
And the namesake of the forgotten love,
Born in ignorance,
Heir to the hare,
Blind to all but the burrow

Enraptured,
in the day break,
and how paper breaks,
under two thumbs only to be healed by broken lips.

Cocoa Butter & Coconut Fibers,
healed w/ banana leaves and nicotine,
smoke - stirred- fried
healed.
mind-body-soul
in cosmic rhythms,
that beat in ethereal waves,
caressing suture & stronghold alike.

pointless.
are hands.
which hold
w/o
being held.

nicotine patches
             &
pineapple fanta
3:54 am --- malibu sunrise
overdose
on optimism
-it was probably the pills again-
but promise me
that the paper will read optimism.
for theodicy is only debated
by
the faithful fool
           &
those hardened by fate

*** for me,
No.
I mean come for me,
At 3:14 am when the last brick has crumbled,
In the facade of surety that you are left to rebuild in moments that seem to allude the hands of time,
Unsurety filling a void that continues to expand like the gaps in your teeth.

*** for me,
Come lost and broken,
Like the hands that will caress the parts of your body and soul that even shadows will not touch,
Let finger tips trace words across your lips,
That the muses have let flow from every inch of your body but that which would allow release.

We are at the edge, love.
But the gods are not permissive of a beggars heart,
And we are not finished,
For the tears are not falling,
And nothing about love ends in emptiness.

Come for me,
For this entire existence is fertile and futile,
As are we,
Meaningless but in passing.

*** for me,
With eyes open,
For there is some beauty in destruction,
And some pain is necessary,
Look at me with the intention to leave or stay,
And you will have known what it means to come for me.

Learn that love comes only in manipulation,
Learn to tease between pain, pleasure, and anticipation,
*** for me.
Then leave.
Leave trembling, leave questioning, but leave whole.

*** for me,
Knowing that pain is as inevitable as absence.

Come for me,
Knowing that my body language will beg you to return,
Before words ever will.

*** for me,
Because poets, prophets, and scribes,
Beg to be lost,
In the manipulation of warmth,
And the movement of bodies,
That is willing to **** the embodiment,
Of cold memories and broken homes,
Birthed from ever so fertile and futile hips.

*** for me,
For the only home that may exist outside futility,
Rests between lips, thighs, and the restless movement,
Of the inversion of absence in the soul.

Come for me,
For healing that the original sin that still drips from your lips,
And anoint the sweetest ******* of love,
A salve for broken, bruised, and decorated skin.

Body covered or bare,
Come for me,
And realize that when the eyes open doors,
It is the body which chooses when to enter and exit,
*** for me.

Dissolve.
Not into my gums,
But into the palms of my hands,
Finger tips no longer rubbed raw,
Nor calloused by tender repetition of motion,
That led my finger tips along a bruised spine.

No longer reliant on blades or bumps,
To witness rivers flow,
into empty streams,
That babbled only of the conflict between blame and forgiveness,
A family of no relation,
Roots no longer struggling to reach.
For they too had learned the wells had run dry,
And had long ago learned to look in other directions.

Je ne regrette rein,
i regret nothing,
except permitting the illusion of love the bled into your eyes,
later to leak from wrist, lungs, and gums the same.