There is a pile of children’s blocks stacked up beside this mother’s apron; they spell out centuries of secluded memories, long since forgotten, purposefully or not. They carry our futures back into our pasts, delicate fingers tearing letters which gravitated together to reveal each precious truth of our existence.

And only time has told, will tell, that the understanding is ours alone until the remainder are ready; the whole spectrum of them, beyond family and friends, plus all of their stories stained into our skin. Such sweet sacred dirt unearthed by surprising realizations and uncovered destinations that we simply can’t ignore anymore.

Our interlocked worlds are willing and breathless, revved up to conquer both ocean and sky; you and I, we swing swiftly on crescents of moons, reaching clusters of stars with sharp, charming limbs. The planets keep secrets they won’t tell aloud, but the point is the shift, progressive and planned, and all we must do is keep on.

I can only predict, mere musings in certainty, the impending events in my old, anxious hands: two brilliant hearts working swiftly in tandem, exposing rivers of dreams under orange-tinted skies. Our souls open wide, blissful and free, illuminated from the fire of invisible suns. And through the colors in our eyes we see untamed heat, ready to be contained and trained.

The stars had it right, their secrets are ours, and we know them to be both burden and gift. We’ll unlock the gates, leave them unbound and clear; to close them would cause a commotion. And last but not least, the final release, as we position each clock face down in the earth to create paths for forgotten time.

--

Truth: one day we’ll reach into the darkest depths of our pockets to grasp the skeleton keys that bind us both to the past: you hide mine, I’ll hide yours, and our love will meet in the middle.

I retreated from something, I retreated. I didn’t want that.
Intermittent stars of isolation, this heart drenched with
honeysuckle,
delicate with hopes and fears.
How peaceful to say, “I am contented,”
and have it be so,
and see you speak sans hesitation the moment you open your
lips.
Yet we fool each other --
“Move forward at the touch.” “Give me your certainty.”
To the end we each seek, pretending not to be tired.

Remembering receives a new definition
each year, each year we grow older
as our numbers change
as our figures fade
as our hands fly further
from our mother’s;
hands are for lovers
now.

Memories are stripped,
constructed suddenly
from ideas, from education,
no longer genuine
as logic takes precedence,
blurring the edges.
Childhood is obviously
the reason you can’t sustain
as an adult.
Or so they tell you.

Welcome to the “good times,”
No picture books to flip,
puzzles to arrange,
just
taxes, bills, magazines,
****** onto us
so swiftly
by whoever made the rule
that imagination dies
as soon as the clock
starts ticking.

There is nothing
like the buzzing
of your own heart
in your own ears.
Nothing greater
nothing worse
only dissonant
rhythmic changes
as you rise
and fall.

The pound
pound
pound
of pulse
breaking through
innocent
blue veins,
coaxing a response
out of limp,
lifeless wrists.

You scratch,
nothing but swift,
apathetic strokes
while knives
slice pomegranates
too full
too excited
to resist
spilling everything.

One inch
is one state
two miles
of thousands
on the map
but the key
camouflages
the most convenient
escape routes.

If you want to
touch
and feel,
find refuge,
be alive:
fight with the ***** deckhands,
throw your hands up,
let it be.