Today
You asked me if I ever
Regretted
Any of the lame,
Crazy stuff that we did

I looked at me
I looked at you
Peering behind
Your concrete walls
And told you

That I
Am not one for regrets,
Don't dwell
On the shattered remains of

What could have been
What should have been
What would have been

That I
Meant every word I said
Meant every word silence uttered
Loved you before my words
Ever ignited a spark in
Your ice cold heart

That you,
Were worth it,
Worth it all

That we,
Were draped with gasoline
We burned like veldfires
Turning everything we
Touched to ash
That they had to call
The fire department

That
The kiss that haunts me
Day and night
The urge to embrace you
Every minute of the hour
The crave for your fiery skin
That burns my fingertips
Each time I caress you
That the hole you left
The scars that are written
On my heart
And each tear I shed
Doesn't compound to regret

You were worth it,
Worth it all

I lose you
like I lose my mind-

effortlessly.

Spill over the top,
let me drink your insides so they become mine
once more.
We were all the same once but that was before
our parents decided to donate fingers
to the place on their gravestones engraved
forever yours.

And I still see you sitting there
pipe in hand
burnt lavender floating through your veins
just how you floated through mine
every day when we were a lesser age.

You're the only reason I am,
and I am nothing.

I laid out a smooth brown blanket
to comfort the scales
flowing through my laptop speakers
five hundred and thirty-two times every second.
Two more times is disarray,
One hundred less leaves you crystalline,
like water,
pouring from the sink
into tupperware cups,
gurgling,
heated,
tea.
We both just need a little tea.

As Jim Morrison put it-

“come on baby light my fire”

Well consider me burnt

I am the embers of a dying flame
I am an ashtray in your heart

I am the curl of smoke on freshly lit incense

I am light
I am light

I am bones in a field

I am a solitary crow

I am smite
Baby, I am fading light

don't touch me
i am drenched to the bone with
gasoline
and one touch is all it will take
for us both to go up in flames.
don't touch me
i am a forest fire
a white hot rod
i will burn your finger prints right off
and then
how will they identify you
when i'm through?

I'm so alone
drowning in my own thoughts

While they gossip and act their age
I listen
While letting my mind digest the mysteries of life

When did I become so old?
So detached from what it means to act my age.

Normal conversations for me involve the future.
They are so normal - gossiping and joking around

So isolated among my own age group
What am I doing with my life? With the now?

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine

My sweetheart once told me
about the passing of the moon,
how it takes an age to burn so bright,
then gone away too soon.

My father once told me
about the whisper of the wind,
how ghosts are soldiers left to die,
in brutal war's rescind.

My shaman once told me
about collective memory loss,
how it takes an age to build a kingdom,
which swiftly turns to moss.

My teacher once told me
about coincidental beauty,
how love is found in patient bliss
and custodial duty.

My pen-pal once told me
about how all of life is work,
how you must toil, toil, toil the fields,
only to end up hurt.

My mother once told me
about the truth found on the coast,
how in landlocked state, she buried thought
and missed my father the most.

My blackout friend once told me
how he re-invented sin,
how truth is but an echo of thought
and great delusion's twin.

The news anchor once told me
about the falling of the towers,
how brothers fell under the mythic spell
of dehumanising powers.

My electrician once told me
about the sounds of abandonment,
how a million memories within the halls,
are now but histories spent.

My garden gnome once told me
about God within the weather,
how we traded in moonlit ponds
for car seats made of leather.

My psychologist once told me
about living with depression,
how it takes an age to face the day
and a second for night's oppression.

My failed love agreed with this
as she turned to walk away,
and for all the words I'd written down,
I had nothing left to say.