You've become the vine
that creeps
up
the side
of my brick encased dwelling,
breaching every
crack
and
imperfection
you've stumbled across,
managed to conceal them,
and make them presentable.

You've overtaken an entire wall;
teal
and lavender
petals,
like crayon shavings,
scattered
against their dark background,
bringing with them
the color
my house
so desperately needed.

Now,
when friends and onlookers
pass by,
they see this great green and brick
marvel,
covered in leaves,
and petals,
and vines
that stretch from every awning,
down to the cement blocks
of the basement.
We have all the neighbors
whispering about
how your greens
compliment my reds
and how bright your flowers
bloom,
even on the grayest
of mornings,
so that everyone
is in envy
of what they see.

Poetry with simple rhyme scheme
isn't really poetry at all.
It takes all the artistry of language,
and crushes their greatness
into something rather small.

It belittles the sharp peaks of your smile,
that peek through porcelain veils.
It takes the beauty of your eyes,
and brings them down to scale.

The rhyming ruins all seriousness,
true poets take in pride,
it leaves their work in ridicule,
though their emotions are implied.

It vastly understates
the warmth in your cheeks,
and incredibly discounts
the lions of your dreams,
making them seem weak.

That is why I will never write a poem
describing the perfection of you
in a silly little rhyme scheme;
that is what I shall not do.

I will, however, jest
at what rhyming cannot describe,
although it tries to do its best,
it falls by the wayside,

For limericks cannot contain
my pretentious heart and soul,
and cannot compare
to the magnificence you hold.

Because if I could contain your spirit,
in matters of stanzas and rhyme
my talents would be wasted,
this atrocity a crime,

But you make my writing worthwhile,
and give me ideas to muse,
instead of the dull and dread,
the pretender's butter and bread,
with none of my talents to use.

I crave the taste
of icy air,
of snowcapped mountains,
and rugged rock
beneath my feet.

To have wildflowers
sprout
from my fingertips,
my tongue
rich
in the language
of flowing rivers,

So that my eyes
will become
parts of constellations
with lashes
of evergreen needles,

My skin of clay,
heart of earth,
and of fire,
with thoughts
made up of
stardust
so they can touch
the moon.

We stared at the ceiling as it blackened from the lights turning off,
and the air chilling with every breath from the A.C.
Inch by inch we moved closer to each other
because we thought it was what we were supposed to do,
but little did we know that with each nudge
our electrons were sending spark signals
way before our bodies even thought about touching.

Like iron and sulfur, we synthesized
moving into each other's lives,
and leaving our pieces behind us,
swapping stories and secrets
in the cover of nightfall
with roaring laughter,
while our heads made permanent impressions
on their downy and memory foam petals
in the garden of wishes
we created.

Constantly I was with you,
just as the shore is never without the sea.
I became your shadow,
and followed you to your room,
and back again,
through the drug cartels of Mexico,
to the blizzards that lie beyond The Wall.
You became my greatest adventure
and showed me what lay beyond the door
I was always too frightened to open.

You earned a doctorate in my mannerisms,
becoming an expert on each temper tantrum,
and each shining grin that you always brought about
on the gloomiest of Wednesdays
when I ran out of milk for my cereal
and overcooked your mac and cheese.

You embraced every flaw I had,
like the father welcoming home the prodigal son,
and came to love every scar I accumulated,
thirty-eight in total,
from the hordes of others,
almost too numerous to count on ten fingers,
that constantly left me with a sewing needle,
and a bottle of Elmer's glue
to mend from each tumble
of their careless hands.


Every jagged edge of mine that cut your palms,
and left nicks on your fingertips
was smoothed by the rough edges of your beard,
and through scratchy kisses
from chapped lips.
You became my greatest blessing,
as well as my greatest weakness,
so now I constantly crave your pale face
spattered with freckles
and beautiful laugh lines
that congregate around
the warmest brown eyes
I have ever seen.

And I thought I loved you then, but
it definitely was nothing like I love you now, because
now I wake up next to you,
I make both of us coffee, and
push open the curtains to let in sunlight.
And when I wake up next to you,
I don't hate Mondays as much anymore,
And when I wake up next to you,
I feel safe,
because through the valleys of your sleeping lungs
I found where I belong.
I found my home.

Each year for your birthday,
I'll get you a hundred balloons,
each one a different color
for every kind of face you make,
and tie them together
with locks of my hair.

And every time you sing,
I'll give you a glass jar,
with a pop top
and golden lid,
so that I can capture
the sweet honey
that drips from your teeth
when you open your mouth.

And every time it rains,
I'll give you a new pair of rain boots
that squeak and thump
awkwardly
with each step,
so you won't be afraid of puddles
ruining your khaki pants.

And each and every time
the world has been cruel,
leaving no room for your balloons
or jars,
or puddles,
I'll be there with white chocolate,
to sweeten the bitterness of their sting,

and globe,
with thousands of poems
written on every sea
and continent
to remind you
that you mean the world
to me,
and that the world
is full of love.

I want to hold your hand.
your fingers threaded in mine,
or hands cupped,
either way,
cells touching;
The valleys of my fingerprints
accenting the mountains in yours.

I want to hold your hand
in winter,
to take off your gloves,
and mine,
and warm up your thumbs
with my slender bones
under wine colored nails.

I want to hold your hand
with each digit painted
different shades of blue,
so when your hand meets
the red running down my knuckles,
we make the perfect shade
of violet.

I want to hold your hand
when we’re eighty,
skins of protruding veins,
blinking the dust
from old eyes,
laughing from tired lungs,
because we made it.

Bathtubs
don't encompass
the flicks of your upturned mouth,
or the etchings of chapped lips
that cut your tongue
when you speak.

Your milky figure
pours into the aquamarine warmth below.
The lavender colored bubbles
Pop
in eighth notes and song lyrics
which bounce off the shower curtain
to the rug,
and back.

The water overflows
its porcelain prison
to compensate for the greatness
in your voice
and gets hotter
with each and every breath
you release
from your fire-filled lungs.

It overruns the bathroom,
and floods the hall with each blink of your eye,
each wisp of your lashes,
the floorboards soaking in every freckle
until every surface of mine
is covered in every cell of you.

The light in your eyes
reflects the laughter
that bursts forth from your soul,
and echoes
through muggy night air.

It traverses
across the room,
bouncing off the glints
of teeth
from constant conversations
of strangers.

As their smiles turn to
smirks,
and bright eyes
grow heavy
with slumber and drink,
your laughter still reverberates

Off the curves of their
hips,
and the tips
of their tongues,
as your lips touch
to meet someone else’s.

As I tuck my knees
to my right side,
sticking
to the smooth surface below
the cutoff denim fabric couldn’t cover

I tilt my head
and lean it back,
closing my eyes,
allowing the mixed smell
of tide water
and seat leather
to dance around my thoughts.

The warm night air
fills my lungs
with longing,
and wanderlust
as my lashes
kiss each other
with every flutter of my lids.

And as the cricket sing,
the salty spray of the ocean
fills my empty caverns,
elevates my soul,
and sweetens my spirits.
I am complete.

There is no wishing,
nor hoping,
nor dreaming for a better tomorrow;
just the contentment
of not knowing
which direction I face,
but the understanding
that I am going
somewhere.

Let's run away,
in a beaten up, old clunker,
with nothing but a box of Cheez-its,
and a collection of albums from The Beatles.

Let's take every face we meet,
and paint them onto every street corner,
stealing sweet peaches ,and juicy oranges
from each vendor along the way.

Let's take the ash
others have put in our mouths,
and dip our fingers in the black,
streaking lines on our faces like warpaint.

Let's live
this crazy, beautiful life,
that you and I have spun
out of frowns and false eyelashes,
and have turned into something worthwhile,

Because we'll be the ones
they write about in novels on best seller's lists
We'll be the ones who create their own world,
because they were too good for the one already in place,

And you and I will be the ones
to look back on our lives, even
with blood-stained palms touching,
and laugh how none of them mattered

Your impatience is marked
by dog-eared pages,
of unfinished novels,
never to be revisited.

It speaks volumes
and song changes during our car rides,
again, and again,
…and again.

It’s your forgetfulness;
the socks under my bed,
the half-drunk soda,
and uncapped glue.

It’s the way
you hurry me into bed at night,
and refuse to let me leave
when the sun’s rays peak through dusty blinds.

It’s your lingering touch,
your constant desire for what’s to come,
for your surprises to be revealed,
your wit to be matched,
and the look on my face,
as I wait to see what’s next.

I could never capture
the face of the one I love
with a paintbrush.

The thin strokes of midnight
which adorn his eyes by the hundreds
would never be fully justified
by my inartistic hand.

I could never capture
the blades of winter grass
that sprout from his face
and dot his cheeks,
bundling around his jawline
sporadically,

Nor the cluster of roses
that attach themselves
at his apples,
and around his nose.

Constellations
are strewn about his face
as if the stars had fallen on to
the snow covered hills
and valleys
that make up his visage.

Though he is not without blemish,
to me he is perfection;
as if God created him
from divine clay
and holy water,
and sent him to me
to place under my care and affection,

So when the porcelain cracks,
or the swirls of earth above his head
lose their shine,
I will be there,
with chisel and brush in hand
to fill in the crevasses
and repaint forgotten smiles,
and to remind him
that he is beautifully
and wonderfully made.

Sleep is the stale breath
that leaks from your mouth.

It escaped out of my nostrils,
and found itself deep in your lungs,
granting you with its heavy eyes,
and vivid visions of wondrous places
far, far away, and far off.

It refuses to enter my being.
It treats me as a stranger,
or a sailor lost at sea;
just another poor soul
lusting for what it cannot obtain.

So sweetly sleep dances around your pillow
giving you dreams of lion taming,
to which you toss and turn valiantly,
and manage to shove me
to the desolate and sleepless
corner of the bed,
with no room for my lions,
or ships, or seas,
taking the covers with you.

We wake up
in bitter cold,
and candied "good mornings"
to have the moon
be the milk for our coffee,
and the sun,
honey for our tea.

From there,
we get dressed,
wearing each other's laugher
as sweaters,
and long conversations
as the seams for our trousers,
pulling each yawn
over our feet
before we head out the door.

I take notes with
locks of your hair,
and write them down
on the porcelain bits
of your hands,
all the while you sit,
and paint with my eyelashes,
crafting the fire,
that lights each iris.

And this is our life;
warmly drunk on
promises,
and the way our hands clasp
when we walk,
a sweet slumber
from which we will never be awoken,
because people see things,
and they understand,
that
like vines,
we're intertwined.