i'm always trying to describe
the wrong things, aren't i?
describing your voice
when it's the words that matter
outlining your face
when it's the smile that really shatters
upon my eyes
trying to write this feeling down
when it's the reasons that are really
important to me
and i guess that's when i realize
i've been avoiding penning this fear
afraid of the reasons, of the causes
that led me here
and this feeling?
it's nothing more than a consequence
or so i tell myself
as i step carefully over
the dark puddles
and onto the hard cement, looking
for the yellow lines
that will tell me where to go
left or right?
right or wrong?
i've been describing the wrong things
i know that now, and i have
each scene played out
in black and white
while the real meaning is lost
in the spaces between the letters
and the missing punctuation
gathers itself into the sky
spelling out the word i am afraid of
fear

i.   My mother's elbows. They
     are too sharp and they twitch
     in the direction of your ribs
     when you invade
     her personal space.

ii.  Needing anything too much. Cutting
     or writing or even
     my own friends.

iii. Fast rides down mountains. I
     remember each one, looking
     out the window, wondering if
     tonight was the night
     finally we would go
     plunging over the tiny
     railing.

iv. Gangs of little kids. Don't
     tell me they don't know
     what they are doing. Children
     are cruel.

v.  Metaphors of fists raining down
     all over your body. I'm
     sorry, I cannot listen
     to your metaphors, when
     they make my skin tingle and
     my hackles raise and
     my heart play out the dance
     of old fears.

vi. Anyone having leverage. Too
     many times, showing caring
     for a thing has seen it
     confiscated. Also, anyone knowing
     I care at all.

vii. Discovering that the scars gifted
      to me are not healed and
      long car rides and
      her elbows and
      cruel children and
      impending addictions and
      openly loving and
      your metaphors make
      me bleed along
      old fault-lines.

I see the twinkle in your eyes and I am jealous
Jealous of the excitement that lies behind them
So enthusiastic and full of  life
I am old and grey in comparison
Tired and weary
But there's fight left in me yet
I'm going nowhere.

temporary lust
permanent
thoughts

could this be love?

it's not just that
it's the warm breath
you feel upon your neck
it's the hot feeling
you feel going through
your blood-pumping heart
it's the aftermath
of a night of shame
pleasure and pain
all of the above

well, not shame
just heaven
of the time
you hold
each other
close

adrenaline rush
is always the worst
because it leaves you
addicted to the fix
it keeps you in place
seeking the passion
that makes your heart race
seeking the heaven
in which you have found
in your sweetheart's love