i want someone to love me
like i'm their own personal gravity
with all the physics i could create

but i guess i can just watch
from the atmosphere
whilst two others embrace

I was walking one day,
between the expanse of forgotten
woods that lay behind my cabin.

I say forgotten
perhaps because of the inheritance,
perhaps because the last time I
set my bare feet into this dirt,
I was a child.

As I followed the water,
in my mind's eye I could see,
the beauty of my mother,
as white as a tree.

the stream took a bend and I went for a dip,
and from the sky of my eyes
one thousand tears did drip.

for astounded, now, I stood
silent and still,

the echoes of the willows,
whispered with the minnows,
merely mirroring shadows,
of a memory,
unearthed.

In apple growing-warmth,
I found oceans between eyelashes and Pacific air.

Ligamented with smoke, skeleton hands crafted cigarettes of honey and curling floral sweetness.

For soft-haired royalty, I bowed my heart and washed my skin in space and rainy wishes.

I drowned myself in polish remover, to show the stripped beauty of love and life
to a sun who lives off alcohol and notions of wouldn't it be nice?

But I, the noiseless patient spider,
who has flung gossamer after thread,
am reaching for nothing but an earth flower,
One who I thought loved me,
or at least that’s what she said.
((one who sees through rose-pink eyeglasses,
and speaks in feathered song.))

Still, I sleep well under starless skies,
where urban northern lights burn the dark,
charred there by city windows and boundless passing cars.

Here, I wrap myself in a cloth galaxy,
and I paint the sun with blackberry juice,
trading gold and diamonds for the simple hope
that someone might live up to you.

On a street in the city at two p.m.,
three shadows hold each other's darkness within their looped hands.
Friendship is grown in the sidewalk cracks
and this human's condition was quite good.
But unsaid jokes splinter smiled eyes,
the sun trips united dark,
one hand is always left standing,
forever apart .

As a flitting dart of orange, barely seen,
who rots in slumber, blocked from verity.
With mirrors and sharp corners on all sides,
He can't see through his endless window pain.
So desperate to escape, he lost all hope,
and turned away from bliss and all he sought.
He joined a school of fish to stay afloat,
and traded loneliness for tedium.
And thus his scales did fade and thoughts did rot;
he brooded in ennui and seemed but dead.
With years of being stuffed and nullified,
the hand of age plucked him from his small home
and dropped him in the porcelain unknown,
Half dead, he slammed through rusting murky ducts,
to find the endless blue of nameless deep.
Around him rushed strange colors, never seen,
so distant from the square life he had lived.
The tank left his mind blinded, bleached, and deaf,
so unprepared for this world of rare souls.
He looks down at his faded snowflake scales,
and thinks of what he was, but now is not.
So we now gladly enter senior year,
restlessly waiting to be flushed.

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.
I was good, I was just, I took only what I needed,
my happily dirt-stained fingertips treated each preserved beauty with the utmost love
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 passing cars contain people, and people have gardens,
and everyone knew
So I began to press the life out of beauty, and I did it only for you.
I still ran and I thieved for a love, just not my own;
Countless cherished petals fluttered to the paper as I smiled,
my now gloved sterile hands caressing sallow dahlias and florid roses,
eyes glossing over each work of precious taxidermy.
Every page of crushed life spelled out made just for you!
and my gold tipped spotless fingertips 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 filled with fear,
Who would pay attention to me if I had no pressed flowers to bear?
I searched for flowers and found winter instead.
But people still came for more, asking and pleading,
confused, saying that there were countless flowers, ripe for the picking.
I heard August bees, but they buzzed around twigs,
happy couples exchanged bouquets of sticks and dried leaves.
Could there really be flowers I wasn't seeing?
I looked down at my hands, gold fingertips cracked and worn.

My sight faded more, and I welcomed it, beaming.
I didn't need to see if people told me what they needed.
I picked sallow dahlias and breathed in florid roses,
filled orders and was met with smiles, laughter, and love,
until August was over, until the need for flowers
had completely dried up.

In September I waved at passing cars, varnished nails flashing,


I still run and I thieve for a love not my own.
But I plant beauty on every empty doorstep,
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/ to those who don't take the time 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.