maybe to hold
      darkly

that which loves you warm;
that which loves you warm and
     sundry.

Flesh to blade, as skin to lips.

love is a pressed handle—
love's pressed handle
        as reddish

florals.

As flush: what you
mean to hold me.

i am desperate
full of need
of wanting
to shake life by the shoulders
and say
“give it all to me”
i want be so heartbroken my hands don’t stop shaking for 7 days
i want to laugh so hard my heart feels like it’s collapsing inside of my ribs
i want to lay outside in the heavy humidity of a
mid summer day,
to feel the heat pressing down around me,
the cicadas’ symphony ringing in my ears
i want to rip the world open with my bare hands
it’s not enough for me,
this endless existence,
i want to live.
i’m trapped,
with only a quiet, persistent desperation
to take life by the throat and spill it’s content on
the wet pavement
i want life’s blood to fill the hollow cracks in between my bones

found her but couldn't hold
what wanted you to find, to love
what you are
i felt you when you were closing

when you were closer

No one can measure
the end....
the time it takes for grief
to spend itself...

to melt like snow
in times of healing
to take its gentle leave
No one can measure
the tending time between the aching...
that grows
into the bones of soul
that grows
less
about the awful pain
  
It just sorta happens
like spring...

among the moments

Conflict
in the eaves. Between
sorrow and sorrow-shadow.
Limb to limb;
Between the eyes of the godless.

Conflict as soft friction:
despondent, prodded, yielding.

A tumbling through the boughs—
Sandbag on the low-hanging sun.

I am no landscape, my
droning, drowning
dearest.

I am no sanctity to your
touch, no sea to strangle your
pleading, endless eyes.

I am stone to grass,
I am inscribed,
I am memoriam.