He is like fireworks on a non-holiday;
spontaneous, iridescent, thrilling.
Familiar yet out of place.

He holds me gently. I don't feel the need to be
strong.
I feel comfortable in being
delicate.
He runs his fingers across my skin.
I am a lace pattern he is entranced by.

A beautiful stone building covered in ivy, he
holds his coarse facade in his tangled fingertips when they clench my back a little too tightly.
I fall victim to his force of nature.

He will try his hardest to open my legs, but
he will really be opening my eyes,
and reality burns by corneas.

"I don't want to fall in love with you",
his voice trembles through that soft half-smile of
frustration. Stones crumble while my left brain screams,
"aren't I good enough alone?"

His heat and my breeze: We make thunder.

"I should go home", but I want to stay and let him hold my mind captive.

If that's not what he wants, I wonder why he kisses me goodnight.

Our observant minds will be the best and worst aspects of any relationship. I don't know if you notice how your fingertips curl at my waistline, but I do. Don't stop that heaven even if the devil is in the details.

8:21am turns to magic when you put the sun in our eyes via white screens with bouncing letters. "Good morning, babe" was all I ever needed to transform me into a morning person on the weekends.

Never underestimate the Power of the Pen. You told me the stars on the island reminded you of my beauty; worthy of a dedication page. You didn't find the time to say goodbye; worthy of being written off.

Inspiration comes in the darkest hours. Give me something other than desperation to grace my pages with at 4am.

You will never disappear, even when you do. Forever engrained in journals and failed publications, as we all wish your memories could smear as easily as pen ink

we're just not that simple.

the doctor smells the smoke on my clothes,
'i thought you didn't smoke'
i don't, but he lingers.

(NJ2015) All Rights Reserved

I remember you telling me how you thought highways were poetic.

There’s a spot I like to go to at night that overlooks the pacific highway,
a wall covered in vines,
I sit there and feel calm.
I can see the poetry in the way the red and white bleeding lights stretch along this road to nowhere.
I can see the poetry in the way each car holds a human
who is living a life that is not mine
and how each life is different
and how for a brief moment these lives are on the same path.
The man on his way home from work,
who has no one to go home to but a dog,
he is tired and he is a hard worker.
He remembers that he is out of milk so he takes the next exit.
A woman who just came from a first date,
who is disappointed because she isn’t sure if she’ll connect with another person the way she connected with her ex-lover,
she regrets the lies she told.
Their cars race forward
and their lonely thoughts chase them home.
These cars are going so fast,
I find it hard to focus on one for more than a moment.  
However,
there is poetry in the way that I am still, while life is going fast.
They say being still isn’t progressive.
They say being still will get me nowhere.
But, I am grounded when I am still.
I am savoring every fleeting moment.
I am taking my time to get to where I am supposed to be and I am not even sure where that is.
I remember you telling me how you thought highways were poetic.
Tonight, I'm thinking that too.

My sweet serendipity,
Oh, love’s gratifying punchline
never failing to spring the downward corners of my mouth
into crescent moons toward a twinkling sky
of dwindling taurus constellations.

Time may not exist in space,
my jealousy weaves through the galaxies,
but it manifests in my world as a limitation for
feelings of splendor
as it took away the pleasure in oxygen I had selfishly gotten used to.


Foolish of me to believe I’d never feel those horns
pushing against my back
to ****** me off the face of the universe.
Silly girl, believing change and trust were not
friends of the stars I had only ever seen in perfect alignment,
and that time was endless for those on Earth as well.


Time was ruthless,
a severe perpetrator of my indecisive, messy mind
of jumbled stars that either exploded or died from time to time.
And, just as the stars above, those still on Earth
only noticed their deaths eternities afterwards.

*

Serendipity shows itself;
surrenders to our intergalactic game of hide and seek
and dances around my fingertips.
Independent entities, serendipity connected the dots.
A little girl screamed she could see the light through the telescope;
The instauration of a beautiful friendship.



Relieved at last by the curls of my mouth
as I could have never escaped the image of yours.