Traces of you line every moment silver,
     even in my darkest day
Traces of you can make the empty linger,
     the second you walk away

Traces of you are my hidden treasure,
     a joy that is all my own
Traces of you are too fine to measure,
     yet brighten my darkness alone

Traces of you make life worth living,
     the birth of my very smile
Traces of you make ease of forgiving,  
     though memories tend to beguile

Traces of you turn hell into glory,  
     then turn back the other way
Traces of you rewrite the story,
     every second of every day

I will give you everything
The moon and all its stars
If you stand beside me in the sun
Just as you are

towering and sheltering
shading and nourishing
a blossoming innocence
of suckled sweetness

draped in wand pods
sowing magical seeds
sprouting sapling bridges
between hoping and knowing

fluttering metamorphosis
butterflies of the night
seeking the light of home
dimmed within memory

though storms may wail
these roots run deep
though lightening strikes
these wings have spread

stellar direction in undulating terrain
punctuated by meteoric columns of infinite light
imparting a clutching embrace to the face of now

lunar reflections form a fluid nocturnal path
to an osculated gateway of fertile encompassment
culminating in breathless pillows of untabled silence

stars without fault grace the expressive heavens
while muted words gaze out through rooftop eyes
cascading over living stone in waterfalls of emotional geodes

I must know...

the smell of your blowing hair
   in the leaf-strewn autumn wind

the touch of your hand on my chest
   closely held in a sleepy winter bed

the sight of your eyes lit with wonder
   for the beauty of spring's first flowers

the sound of your voice calling my name
   through a window from a summer garden

...and as the cycle renews...

the taste of your fertility
   under the cover of a harvest moon

...there simply aren't enough seasons
to gain a complete sense of all that you are

But the truth is,
My dear,
You could break my heart
A million times  
In a million little pieces
And I would pick them all up
Just to put them back
Into your hands.

I often wonder
Just how easily do a pianist's fingers conform to their keys?
How do guitar strings feel to the talented in comparison to me?
Why are some more gifted as to how they handle a pencil?
And how can a few fortunate souls control their voice to create perfect sounds?
Why do some possess the wonderful abilities of feeling things better than I can?

An absent father's failure with an inhaler in hand

Insecurity seething from his skin

Manifesting it's self as bulbous red abrasions on his forehead

A heavy breathing child who's eyes were often aimed low

His expectations for life even lower

A little over weight but not enough to concern his pediatrician

He cut gym class a lot because of the showers

Now fourteen he had seen a few ******

He knew he didn't match up

It was better that no one knew he thought

He went on living like this

A pale shadow hovering in the halls

A faceless nobody in the background of someone else's group photo

A ghost who was only noticed by those who tortured him

Bullies like sharks can smell blood in the water

And he was chum

I still vividly see the feeding frenzy

I still remember the day we were told he took his own life

NO shrieks, NO cries, NOT even a whimper was heard

Almost a concerted sigh of boredom

That night there was a party

Not to celebrate his death

But an apathetic gesture of his nonexistence

I attended as was socially expected of me

Even wore a smile

But my mind wrestled with his suicide

I thought of how much I hated him

I hated the smell of his weakness

I hated the 'poor me' attitude

I hated him for taking his own life

Leaving me to feel guilty

That I had done nothing to help him

As if I was responsible in some way

...

I see her there
soaking in the bath
the water as warm as her flesh
she floats, suspended in emptiness
melting slowly as she gazes

I see her there
wine in hand, unfulfilled
by her intoxication
bored by reality, just jaded
by the whole affair of breathing

I see her there
thoughts of drowning
in a ceaseless sea
of forgettable people
with forgettable faces

I see her there
but she does not see me
I am the red stain on her teeth
the warm water inviting her to sleep
I am death, and oh so quietly
do I creep.

We joke sometimes
about falling in love,
we talk in deep detail
about our romance;
the kind of house we want,
the name of the family dog,
would we rather have boys or girls,
and we argue over who will stay home
to raise the kids, I always let you win.

We joke sometimes
about growing old together;
we talk about thinning hair,
wrinkling skin, tired eyes
and energized grand kids.
We promise to one another
that we will stay in love,
still hold hands, hug each other tightly
and kiss both daily and nightly

We joke sometimes
about a life we could be living
and I just want you to know
that I am not always kidding.

Love is for the poor,
and money for the rich
but wisdom is reserved
for those who caught the itch
of curiosity for the fact that they exist.


Those sparse few who dare
to put their faith into people
but expect not to see the eyes of god
inside of another man’s cathedral.
Knowing well that these lies and laws
could never guide us past the flaws
of good and evil.


Only believe in the dreamer
who refuses the role of a follower
and shuns the idea of a leader.
Be not deceived by status or acclaim
because it only makes you a disciple
of a product and a name.


Hold in high regard the tired hikers
born to the depths of the deepest valleys
and yet they rise before the light of dawn
like a striker to set ablaze the malaise
of these pedestrian days
that mock our souls
with monotonous toil.


This life is but an eternal recurrence
therefore every morn we are born anew
and that potential is a shot at transference
into something more eminent than you.
Become the bridge my friend
because there is no future
in being an end.