Why do I insist on looking for solace at the bottom of all of these bottles?
I know full well that nothing in this world, nor in Heaven nor Hell, can fill the small, Gavyn-sized void in my heart and in my soul, yet still, in vain, I try to drown my misery in the suds and decanters of inebriation…
I have dreampt of you twice in the last week. That is more than my dreams have been graced by your countenance in the last year. Each time, upon waking, I have been found with a smile, painful in its hope, for waking brings the end of the dream. I spend my time chasing dreams, for dreams are so much more hopeful than the reality that my sleeping brain awakens unto.
In these dreams, I have seen your face, heard you laugh and cry and call for me. Seen you run and play and question, seen you witness the sun and the World. I have held you in my arms and felt you wrap yours around me.
This alcohol numbs the sting of this unreality, for when I awake, it is in the sobering arms of loneliness and longing and emptiness. My heart beats for you, and in your absence, continues to beat, labored and heavily.
Every fiber of my being cries out for you, every second of every day. I see my failure in the smiles of children, in the hands of Fathers and Mothers and Children entwined, for mine clasp only the pen or the pillow, the bottle or themselves.
I want to heal the pain of this world, yet I cannot find inside myself the focus to care for anyone other than you or myself, nor the capacity to heal your world, or my own.
My hope continues, beaten down and suffocating, yet alive; the hope of the ******.
Whilst ****** I may not be, the excommunication from you is damning…
Am I dying, my Angel?
…Maybe.
Or am I just not living?
Try as I might, I cannot find the answer to this question. Perhaps, it is both. Dying while refusing to live.
For there is much to live for and much to die from.
Yet, my heart beats and my hope, my hope screams in whispers. Because of you.
I love you, Sweet Angel. With more than I ever knew that I possessed. These unshed tears are nothing more than unsung songs and unpenned verses in your name.
Sleep sweet, my love. Don’t forget to say your prayers. Daddy will be here when you wake up.

and as you lie there
in that torqued fetal position
lights dimmed
you will -*******- overcome it
with a red plastic lighter lighting
blue skies that bloom past the has-been

it's a new day it's a new you
that happened

You didn't make me doubt people
you made me doubt words
You always say the words real, love, sincere, like, and all those other wonderful words
I didnt know there will come a time where I had to search the dictionary whenever someone say those words to me again
It may have a duplicate meaning...

The leaves so colorful fall
Like my sunken hope
After the dead of winter
The blooms bring a renewed soul

they fell slowly into snow drifts
as she flushed the bitter, stinging cold
from his lips with a kiss lasting
long enough to light a warmth
within them that turned to eyelash droplets the snow as it lit dizzy
on their brow

In the midst of speaking,
   of making plans,
                       of taking orders,
        small and long winded.
                                   Talk wafting to bounce off
   the walls, here between them a bubble of
  warm and meeting,
and I can't find a ground to
walk on.  So I'll keep on dropping eaves.

   The need so painfully sweet for an us
or we to keep dear and meaningful.
   A bond mind-made, heart-shaped kept
floating somewhere beyond the moon.
   I continue to find myself
looking up at it in the hope to hear you
     looking up at it too.

    Cavernous Heart! in you there is no distance.
My touch of love is here,
her soft and smell like
squeezing together breaths.
    Here in my chest is our laughing at the little silliness
  of fingers and eyelash drifting.
           So hot inside as to burn to steam
                       the tears before falling.

In the midst of speaking, of need,
     in the very hallow of heart
       I see the same Moon as you.

Yes.
I have come here to learn.
Your grace is the prism thru which
I have witnessed the broken light
of beauty.

Allow me to look
that I may learn
to reflect the spectrum unedited
and act always from a place of compassion.

In this is a poem,
flowing thru and over the stones of language,
a bed for a restless body.

Somewhere here is a poem,
behind and beneath the walls,
impounded as so much sound unspoken.

The glass before you
holds a poem,
both transparent,
one delicate when presented
the floor.

The poem is rushing,
brimming, tidal in its own surface tension,
held smooth and blue until the tipping point of pressure,
when it slips over the stones,
the walls,
the glass broken
and spills downhill
over the homes,
the fields
and farms,
white spray
finding shape in the valley
where you stand on the shore,
where you bend down to drink.

The river,
the dam,
the cup
is not
the water.