When I was young I had wrinkled skin,
just as now I have soft hair.
And even now I feel the pain of love,
just like when I was young and widowed.
When I was young I had tunnels etched into my bones,
but I still write and draw like I once did.
When I was young I had such life, such zest for anything,
and now that life has dwindled none,
but lies incomprehensible to the ignorant man.
It can only be seen by those who choose to see
through wrinkled skin.
And now I'm old, with such life within,
and yet I sit here,
because I have soft hair
and smooth skin

I picked a flower to press today,
to make ephemeral it's limmering beauty.
I stood, transfixed, staring far too long,
so long that, in fact, it had rotted away

I press flowers because I like it.
The thrill of thievery, of plucking irreplaceable beauty from those who can't see it anyway,
wild eyes daring passing cars to not slow down
for the girl holding flowers between her teeth.
And I ran and I thieved for a love of my own,
a secret I shared only with passing cars and the once perfect gardens.

But I began to press the life out of beauty, to preserve it for you,
and my past theft seemed selfish, childish, and frankly, insane.
I still ran and I thieved for a love, just not my own;
Countless cherished petals fluttered to the paper as I smiled,
eyes glossing over each work of precious taxidermy.
Every page of crushed life spelled out anything for you
and my wide loving eyes could see nothing wrong.

As I ran, my long hair no longer flew in the wind,
the few remaining strands stuck limply to my wrinkled skin.
I grew weak, stems slipped through my desperate fingers,
so much beauty was too much for shaking skeleton hands.
My eyes barely opened and were coated in haze.
I searched for flowers but then found winter instead.
I heard August bees, but they buzzed around twigs,
couples exchanged bouquets of sticks and dried leaves.
My sight faded more, and I welcomed it, beaming.
Shrinking to the ground, all I saw were gray clouds:
the very clouds I used to not notice,
the same grayness someone taught me to love.

What can fool someone so far to think the sun has gone cold?
Was it August's pollen showers? Could they really be mistaken for snow?
Are sun scorched sidewalks so white-hot that they numb barefoot toes?
How can something pave the world in grayness and shadow even beauty that was preserved?
Can something so simple make gray clouds greater than gold?
But then why is it so terrible to see beauty in the dull?
It is love that can make gray clouds greater than gold,
but it is also love that can dim the rest of the world.

I still run and I thieve, but not for a love of my own.
I plant beauty on every empty doorstep,
for the love of others,/for others to find their love even if it is unknown.
Because I shook my bones until only pennies fell out,
but pennies are just pocketed rust to those who are afraid to love/ to those who have no time to love

I dissected a heart in biology
no one understood what it meant to me,
but it was because I'd never held one, before, myself.

Scouring bleach and formaldehyde
can never disguise the sickly sweet beat of butterflies
that lies, oh so quietly, on the shelf.

I had one too, some time ago,
and I've tossed pennies and blown for wishes,
but somehow now I've made my peace
with never getting it back

I sat on a playground of chlorine stained rocks,
swinging my legs, wearing mismatched socks.
Golden waves of grain swept before my eyes,
it slipped out of my grasp as I blindly wept.
it did not break, but was lost.

A second time, another demise:
a grocery store on roland and thirty-sixth,
I was hypnotized by spoken laughter,
green eyes held it and called me legend
but then forgot it, laying on the shelf.

On the shelf I sat for mere hours,
but could not stand thinking of none,
So I fell in love and waited for the ends of the earth,
searching for someone to tie myself to.
A hand reached for lemon and galaxy
So I soured my smile and sparkled my eyes,
but my gravity broke, my star went out,
while my strings were taut and devout.
and _ hands saw beyond my light and reached out to me,
with scissors sliced away my woven web from their hands,
and it dropped to the floor, misled.

After this I gave up,
gathered the pieces and strings,
and hammered and nailed them with my cut apart love.
But one day in the library, I drew a grapevine,
and its tendrils and swishes caught my fingers,
it turned toward the sky, grew an upturned nose,
and its grapes melted into dark brown eyes.
I rushed to the stairs to tape up my chest,
for my heart was, again, bleeding out.

I closed my eyes today
The wind was blowing
And the sun was bright as ever
Your favorite type of day
And in that moment I thought of you again
Could you feel the warmth of life
Did you decide to live?
Are your eyes closed
Arms out stretched
Palms to the gods
Can you feel what its like to live
Without me
Without you
Today was a good day
Without you

I dissected a sheep in biology
no one understood what it meant to me,
but it was because I'd never held one myself.

Scouring bleach and formaldehyde
can never disguise the sickly sweet beat of butterflies
that lies, oh so quietly, on the shelf.

I had one too, some time ago,
and I've tossed pennies and blown for wishes.
But somehow now I've made my peace
with never getting it back

I sat on a playground of chlorine stained rocks,
swinging my legs, wearing mismatched socks.
Golden waves of grain swept before my eyes,
I blindly wept, it slipped out of my grasp, did not break, but was lost.

A second time, another demise,
at a grocery store on roland and thirty-sixth,
green eyes hypnotized and called me legend,
but then placed it neatly back on the shelf.

Walking was once so weightless. But now I stand here, thoughtlogged, waterful. Gazing unblinkingly at the chlorine stained rocks, I rip the northern lights from my eyes. The thunder steals away, leaving ringing ears reaching for more, lightning returns to the sun. The storm is replaced with moldy gray smeared with cotton candy cirrus. Children make lemonade with no need for sugar, and passersby gulp too-big sips, and cavity drips from their rotting lips. Night falls, the children fold up their twenty-five cent stand and leave the lemon juice for the sweet-seeking hummingbirds. The children don't notice the grid in the sky. Glittering rows of nebulae and crescent stars framed the light-polluted navy; a hand imagined the constellations, drew them, and pasted each fraying corner, neatly, line to line, no coloring outside the lines, nothing left to the imagination. But wasn't that the point? To stare in wonder with someone you loved? Imagining, dreaming about the world beyond? Not a single corner/ piece was left unglued/ fluttering in the wind. There wasn't a single fluttering bit to peel back and reveal the ancient unknown wallpaper of the universe beneath.
I search for a cumulus to save me but I fall, finding the ground far too soon.