will you still think of me
when the winter’s snow
like ****** needles sticking
and pricking me
slamming your smack
mainlining your masochism
melts to pastel pink mornings
and pregnant dewdrops
gravity propelling them
down flower petal water slides?
will my taste loiter on your lips
will the memory of my touch
my ghost fingers
still leave erupting goose-bumps
your hair standing on end
my unalloyed current
sparking into the night of kerosene.
will the fire bring me to mind?
my face engraved on your memory
like a holy icon
to which you run when the flames
rage as far as you can see
the orange haze of ******
and the hoard of children running
blistered skin
and their screams piercing
gouging
each wearing your face.

I often catch myself
involuntarily whispering a phrase;
"I wish I were home"
while at my house.

I dream of a character
that I know exists but I'll never find
because I'm too comfortable with
being alone all of the time.

Light pets my cornea every morning, through the sunshine printed tapestry...
I prefer the synthetic things in life,


the irony.

We tiptoe into the unknown
figuring out where to go
where our legs will take us
we walk slowly into the woods
we hike up to the hills the mountains
we walk briskly right by the ocean the sea
we cross rivers streams
we jump off a cliff a waterfall
we jump over boulders puddles holes and cracks
we run
we run swiftly to
where the roads meet
where the concrete ends
where the dirt begins
we run down the path without a path
we run into the horizon where the sun rises and sets
we run
we hold hands
we walk
we slow down
we stop
we stand there
we find
that place
that moment
it is where we're supposed to be
you
me
us.
Our rugged soles.