You went to that place
                         Where her flowers used to grow
Spilling hot, salty tears countless times
                    Left the air always smelling like the sea
Even years later
                       You can still hear her mermaid laughter
                   Echoing through the trees
Grown over with weeds now
                                      Sweet memories resting place
Much like the aching hollows of your heart
                   Anger rushes through the quiet solitude
           Urging your knees to buckle
Digging your hands into rich, wet earth
Sobbing great hiccuping gulps through mournful wails
                        True pain is that of loss
A circle is finally cleared
       Exhaustion floods the moment
Head heavily laid where she rests
                   Clouds hum by above the canopy
Digging into your pocket
Smiling softly now
            Grasping at incubating bleeding heart seeds
A hole here, a hole there
                                   She'll grow again

*For the dead never truly leave us

I used to be close enough
To breathe you in...

Now I must settle for tasting you
On the wind.

Wild heart
Gypsy soul
Traveler of the outskirts
Dancing through the darkness
Stars dangle in my hair
Tasting midnight on my lips
You mark me every time
Teeth. Hand-prints. Essence.
I never leave whole
Pieces of me, of you, crocheted into grandma squares
Dot the journey between us
Hansel and Gretel style
"Pick them up"
You pick them up!
Connect their edges
Our nimble fingers weaving through
A wash of color and heartache stretches between us
In order to grow we must hurt
One of your smiles nips at my pinky as my needle moves
I miss their edge
Moaning softly, shaking memories loose
Warmth easing through the distance between you and I
"Let's wrap up in each other"
But we are not done!?
..."We never will be. I want you now."

He was a trilogy master
Leaving out the brisk bite of winter chill
Extremes to an extend
Always turning back again towards the light
Engaged in graphic silence
He toiled
Ink stained fingertips acrid as he bit their half moon edges
Dragons and fire burn across the pages
Blank ones waiting their turn to soak up his imagery
Sand dunes sweep across his vision
Night landscapes forever shadowed in darkness
Howeling mountains inundated with sharp-toothed beasts
His pen swirls with magic and mist
At once a slave and master to his words
This is his world
One of falling asleep on half-written sentences
Waking up from vivid dreams to create again
*This is his world