"One time, me and Steph went to South America and stayed in this motel.  We didn't have much money back then so we tried our best to just have fun anyway.  We stayed at cheap motels across the world, we never stayed there much though so it's not like it really mattered. But, we were in South America this one time and we were on the balcony smoking cigarettes, having coffee at 2 A.M. and reminiscing about our pasts.  She had such a heavy heart. She would tell me with a cheeky little grin "Yeah, I did a lot of bad things I'm not proud of, Tony.  I'm pretty glad I did all those bad things, ya know? Those bad things led me to you.  Those bad things **** well hurt, but they led me to you. Those bad things were worth it, Tony." And at 2 A.M., things always got a lil deep for her because she believed any time past 12 was a time to really think.  So, sometimes she would have a good cry and I'd hold her. I think that memory of us on the balcony in a strange new country having coffee, cigarettes, and chats really stuck in my head because it was a time in our adventure where you could tell things had their pause.  It was a memory that lasted longer than the few hours it actually did.  I still remember the taste of that cigarette and that cup of coffee. I remember the texture of the blanket she had wrapped around her slim, shivering body. I remember how meaningful her innocent tears were.  Yeah, the view was pretty, but I wasn't really concerned about what was beyond that balcony because I was too busy savoring her presence."

Sometimes I like to wonder,

does my pen move
the same way as yours?

Does it
             dance?
Does it
             sing?

                        Does it
impel a grateful piece
of paper to smile,
and laugh out
tiny bubbles of its dream
to be admired in the Louvre?

Or does the paper bleed
angry droplets of deep-coloured
ink-blood from its ink-heart
from its ink-soul; or does it cry
little black tears
from its dark fountains of literature?

Does the paper feel
all of these things
as you sketch your last
line
or as I write my last
word?

What then, when every one of your pictures
makes words in the thousands?
How many more chunks of eternity
can you paint versus my poetry?


                    Yet you say I understand you.


Sometimes what you paint
flickers like in the movies,
and every frame

makes me wonder

if the way my pen moves
is just something someone animated
in her free time instead of studying.
Maybe then it wouldn't be too much
to say that sometimes
you sketch me into life.

Maybe then, this is why, sometimes


                    you say I understand you.


Even if I can barely hear your oxygen
over the noise of glittering pixels
that often disappoint us when we seek
more
than these strange profundities online,
where emotion is a commodity
and not ink... not paper...

It doesn't matter.

Because maybe my pen
was sketched by you.

And maybe
your poetry, your art
Dances. Sings. Smiles.
Laughs. Bleeds. Cries.
                                     Breathes.


                    So you can as well.

We would lay together, life's puzzle had been solved
you moved me without touching, we spoke without saying a word
shooting stars and moon beams coveted the bluest of blues
each tiny flickering light held a promise so divine
It was exactly where we were supposed to be, a perfect symmetry
The tarot got it right, the oracle of late nights
The beauty of knowing that you were a part of my life
hurts me to the point of respect of appreciation
Hinders my logical thought, for without you my love
is the last place I ever wanted to be
I pictured an old couple that would someday feel the burden of love
but that someday well worth the years i had planned around us
Is it my fault for loving someone more than myself?

A brief, but passionate inhale.
Who would have thought,
of the autumn in her eyes?

A sweet, delicate voice.
A beautiful sound to detect.
And never forget.
And never regret*.

The stud of a nose
Her own clothes and eloquent verbose
An unheard of strength
That she shrugs off like dirt.

And she knows of Dad.
Because she has been there too.
Not just for the smell of *****,
Or for the pain of just one bruise,
But for the depth behind
A clenched fist
and the struggle for eye contact.

It was 6 AM.
In the autumn.
And things just happen.
But see,
it wasn't just a thing.
It couldn't be.
The way I held your hair
And hid it safely behind your ear.
And accepted the kiss
That my fear could not initiate myself.

It was the blue,
And the blonde.
The black of the beanie,
And the spots of the sweater.
It was the look
and the smile
and the inhale.

And then
it was the stars.
And the stone wall.
And the Boston skyline.
It was the teasing.
and the alcohol
and the spot by the river.
And it was autumn in her eyes.

It was heaven in the trembling of my knees,
and in that kick in the shin,
and in the brownie brittle,
and in the passionate kiss in the room upstairs.
It was hell in the uncertainty.

And as the time will pass,
We will attract or repel.
Naturally.
And where this ambiguity chills me to the bone,
I find autumn in her eyes.

The echoes of whispers
Projecting through the chasms of my mind
Smiles and laughter plastered across my walls inside
Amongst all this commotion, loneliness is all you'll find

That moment of true realisation that you're all alone
When you scuttle through the crowds
In hope that your vital signs
Have not yet been shown

The aching fades as I steer the shadows
A beating heart oozing, drying away the flooded gaze of piercing eyes
My soul traverses toxic shallows
For lost silence is now my prize

You are such a waste of poetry

I don't even know what to say to you
Because after everything that we've been through
You act like a stranger now
And I always wonder how;
How could you change this much in a month?
I don't understand-
I knew you like the back of my hand
You were my wonderland

Where did you go?
We were together a month ago
We fell in love when we were 14
But something intervened
Once we hit 18

I wish I knew what to say to you
I wish I could tell you I missed you
But now you're just a stranger

How do I survive
When I can't breathe
Any other air
But yours
And you
Are not around
anymore

He came everyday to see her 
As her life slowly withers
She mount every will to endure the pain
With him standing to catch her faint
There's no way she can submit to fear
Frail like a snail slowly reaching the end
He didn't give up, he knew she'll get better

He loved her through her 
misery and pain. Even though 
she was fading out into the black 
and grey. He promised to kiss her 
and stay. With his shining light he 
let her demons come out and play 
and managed to stop the sad songs 
that were stuck on in her head every 
single day. Hand in hand he walked 
with her out of the dark while he tore 
the shadows that used to follow her apart. 
Kissing her under the night sky claiming 
that he was love drunk. Turning her lips 
to crushed cranberry red. “You’ll get better 
I promise” he said.

She kept thinking what if she dies
And he finds another soul
She hated that thought
But she rendered to the cold
She knew deep inside
She's not getting  better
Her life filching barely at its end
She smiled through pretense crescent
Deceiving like the moon gleaming
Fate fall through and disguised in surprise
Accidents love kissing loyal men
She survived and he died
She cries forever
Until she listens to his last voicemail
"Baby, I don't wanna say this. But I told you so.. you got well. I'm sorry I couldn't make it till the end, so please learn to love again."

they called me here
to this home
to this time.
I listened
I've always been a good listener.
as soon as I learned the
definition
of heed, I began.
it's my favorite word

and so I listened
and we're here
and it all just keeps working.
paying attention to the subtleties ,
the wind breeze,
the crows tease,
the bugs glowing, blue eye…
the crimson show,
the earth moved,
the air beneath this ground,
the vines lasting
stretch to protect the fruit
obviously
grown for us.
never a year before?
I truly wonder still.

when?
now, as he said.
it's now.
I'm only now.

there is nothing to await
though impatience is a mental normalcy.

our friend in the desert
made the connections.
she must have told me
though I don't
remember
hearing her.
I ramble sometimes
and listening is impaired.

of course I'm a work in progress…
it's mostly due to
depending on my memory
its impermanent in its
very nature.

now!
if I lived there, I would
have it a little easier
but I'm still scared of the dark.
one of the remaining fears,
a part of the message
sent;
called me here.
the lessons continue to
self realize
and appear, right
at my eyes,
never before
always on time.
always.