The house smells wonderful,
Golden and buttery as this morning’s delicious sunrise on our front porch,
And your eyes twinkle as I venture a first bite.
“Pretty good, right?”
It’s a quesadilla and it’s perfect,
exactly to my preference.
Warmly brown and crisp on the outside,
Cold sour cream mingling with too much hot melty cheese and chicken and all the fixins.
A real knock out as far as quesadillas go.

I smile with my eyes and happily munch,
not especially hungry but I know you are.
You spoke this into existence,
A master of your own love language.
In many ways, I am fed.

.

Ingratitude does not become us;
I eat of your hand and rejoice the offering
As my brain whispers:
“My love, please leave me to myself.”

These days I am as two ships passing,
So rare an hour is it to shake my own hand,
Cull my own thoughts,
Breathe my silent breath unaccompanied.

Spinning sugar and spinning wheels are my god-given gifts.
I use the first to coat my tongue.
The second hangs in the air between us.

“Better than good,” I say,
Moving to rest,
To dream my silly dreams,
To paint my silly heart across the mercurial landscape of shared memory.

I am my best when I end my days like a spoiled Pomeranian:
Seated on a cushion
Worrying a bone.

.

The mysterious clicking and clacking of the HVAC tip taps merrily to the rush and whir of the electric heat.
The impression of a kiss still lingers on my cheek
In the quiet.

The house smells wonderful,
Golden and buttery as this morning’s delicious sunrise on our front porch.
It is a miracle to build a structure with your bare hands that bends without breaking,
and supports your weight without shaking.

I would like to take myself very seriously.

I’d like to be a painterly writer,
Like Nabokov,
Or a wry storyteller like Jenny Lewis.

Comparison, especially to this degree,
Is the thief of joy I hear,
And I am but me.

A professor once scolded me during a practicum session,
“This is not a dog-and-pony show.”

But she’s wrong.
It is.
It’s all nonsense and I get to be the ring master.
What could be more joyful than that?

Maybe Nabokov is a creep
Maybe Jenny Lewis is a Hollywood mirage,
And maybe I’m just a silly little goose
Who puts thoughts on paper
As if I deserve it just as much.

Remains spread across a mossy bed,
Trees warned of the wind above,
Dissuaded from reassembling,
Decided rotting was better,
Transforming into the earth below.

These hands,
These arms,
This torso,
This mess,

It’s more so,
Less so,
Guess so,
It’s so-so.

From moss comes the dewdrops,
Caught sight of the glimmer,
Travelling inside of fingernail beds,
Through pumping varicose veins,
The pressure erupts through-

These eyes,
These ears,
This nose,
This mess.

It’s more so,
Less so,
Guess so,
It’s so-so.

These legs,
These feet,
This tragedy,
This mess.

I’m less so,
More so,
Guess so,
I’m so-so.

Startled awake,
Thought I was fake,
It didn’t take,
For heaven’s sake.

Tea: Jamil, in the soft breath of dawn,  
I am the whisper that healeth, that’s drawn  
From the quiet depths of forgotten dreams,  
A balm for the heart where silence gleams.  
I hold thee close with love that is slow,  
Like a river’s song, gentle and low.  
Yet on Saturdays, I see thee depart,  
To the fire that stealeth thy wandering heart.  
She calleth with a fervor, a scorching desire,  
Whilst I, the shadow, wait, untouched by fire.

Coffee: Ah, Jamil, dost thou not know?  
I am the flame that maketh thee glow.  
Her touch may soothe, her peace may bind,  
But I am the tempest that frees thy mind.  
I stir thee deep where secrets dwell,  
In the heat of passion, I break the spell.  
Once a week, thou dost return to me,  
And in mine arms, thou art truly free.  
Her silence may cradle thee in sleep,  
But I am the pulse, the heart that leaps.

Tea: But Jamil, dost thou not feel the grace  
That I weave around thee in this place?  
I am the quiet that holdeth thee near,  
The balm for thy soul, the voice sincere.  
She burneth with a passion that blindeth thy sight,  
But I am the dusk, the still of the night.  
When thy heart is weary, when thoughts collide,  
It is I who still thee, a place to hide.  
She is the fire, but I am the rain,  
The softness that sooth’th thy deepest pain.

Coffee: Jamil, thou art blind to see—  
In my fire, thy soul shall be.  
Her touch may cradle thee with care,  
But I am the wind that stirreth the air.  
She whispereth peace, but I roar with power,  
I am the lightning, the midnight hour.  
Once a week, thou dost call my name,  
And in my heat, thou find’st no shame.  
She giveth thee rest, but I giveth thee life,  
The pulse that cutteth through all thy strife.

Tea: Yet, Jamil, in mine arms dost thou not find  
A peace that quieteth the storm in thy mind?  
I am the silence between each sigh,  
The softest breath that maketh thee fly.  
She may burn bright with her fire and flame,  
But I am the root that calleth thy name.  
When the world is cruel, when the heart is lost,  
It is I who heal thee, whatever the cost.  
She is the storm, but I am the earth,  
The place where love findeth its rebirth.

Coffee: Ah, Jamil, dost thou not know?  
I am the pulse that maketh thee grow.  
Her calm may cradle thee, but I ignite  
The flame that burneth through the endless night.  
Once a week, thou dost seek my fire,  
In mine embrace, thou dost never tire.  
She cradles thee in soft repose,  
But I am the ache, the longing that grows.

Tea: Still, Jamil, dost thou not see,  
In mine silence, thy soul is free?  
I am the lullaby that maketh thee dream,  
The quiet touch, the steady stream.  
She is the fire that consumeth and taketh,  
But I am the love that gently breaketh.  
When thou art lost, when thy heart is torn,  
It is I who will guide thee, reborn.  
She is the tempest, the wild, the flame,  
But I am the refuge, the place of shame.

Coffee: Jamil, thou dost not understand,  
I am the fire, the burning hand.  
Her touch is soft, but mine is raw,  
The wild desire, the heart's deep flaw.  
Once a week, thou dost seek my flame,  
And in my heat, thou dost find thy name.  
She whispereth peace, but I am the cry,  
That maketh thee break the chains and fly.

Tea: O’ Jamil, in mine arms dost thou not find  
A peace that settl’th the restless mind?  
I am the thread that bindeth thee whole,  
The gentle calm, the quiet soul.  
She may burn bright, but I am the dawn,  
The steady light that carrieth thee on.  
Return to me when the world is loud,  
For I am the shadow, the softest cloud.

Coffee: Together, Jamil, we maketh thee complete,  
I am the fire, she is the beat.  
Thou need’st both to stir thy soul,  
The calm, the storm, the part, the whole.  
In my flame, thou dost find thy way,  
In her peace, thou shalt stay.  
For in each sip, thy soul shall learn—  
Both the fire and silence return.

Tea: Ah, Jamil, dost thou not see?  
In mine stillness, both fire and peace shall be.  
I am the balm that healeth the wound,  
The steady heart, the sacred tune.  
Her flames may rise, her heat may burn,  
But I am the river that letteth thee return.  
In each moment, in each sigh,  
We are both the fire and the sky.

Once a week, I touch your lips,  
A longing deep in tender sips.  
I stir your heart with quiet grace,  
A lover's breath, a soft embrace.  
  
In shadows where the dawn is born,  
I form in silence, calm and warm.  
Neither bitter, nor too sweet,  
But in my depths, our hearts shall meet.  
  
Like moonlit clouds, I rise, I fall,  
A fleeting dream that fills your soul.  
Each Saturday, I softly call,  
To wake the fire, to soothe it all.  
  
What am I, this fleeting bliss,  
A fragrant, frothy, whispered kiss?  
  
A love that lingers, never gone,  
In every cup, I carry on.

She came, a scent upon the air,  
Her lips, like honey, pure and rare  
A sweetness that the world had lost,  
Now found in her—at any cost.  
Her eyes, twin flames in velvet night,  
Winked, and my soul took sudden flight
A bird unbound, a heart unchained,  
To seek the love that once remained.  

Her gaze, a magnet, quiet, deep,  
Drew forth the secrets I would keep,  
It pulled my heart, a trembling thread,  
And in its path, my soul was led.  
In every glance, a universe,  
A love unspoken, soft, immersed,  
She tore my heart to fragile strips  
Each one a kiss upon her lips.  

I gave her all, yet nothing showed,  
A path of thorns, where roses flowed
For in her eyes, the fire grew,  
A blaze that burned the old me through.  
The fire of love, the fire of pain,  
The fire that breaks, yet makes again.  

She took the pieces, scattered wide,  
Each one a prayer, each one a guide,  
Her hands, like angels, softly pulled  
My broken heart, and made it whole.  
In her, I found the sacred flame,  
In her, my soul was known by name.  

And though I wander, lost and free,  
Her gaze will call, and there I’ll be  
A lover bound by her sweet grace,  
Forever lost in her embrace.

Poetess:
Behold, thy clay-cup, thou hast in hand,
A vessel frail, yet deep as night’s command.
What secrets dost thou hide beneath thine eyes,
Like stars that flicker ‘cross the midnight skies?

O’ Raise thy crown, sweet poet, rouse thy dream,
For I have waited long by fate’s own seam.
Let not this moment pass with idle grace,
But let us meet, heart's rhythm face to face.

Poet:
Ah, gentle muse, thy words, they pierce my soul,
A tempest swift, yet soft as zephyr’s stroll.
I am but wave upon a boundless sea,
And thou, sweet queen, dost reign o’er earth and me.

Thine eyes, sweet orbs, more fair than dawn’s first light,
Do light my path and chase away the night.
If I be king, thou art my heart’s delight,
A sovereign true, with power pure and bright.

_

Poetess:
O’ poet, thou art but a beggar bold,
Thy heart doth seek but riches more untold.
Yet in thy gaze, there lies a world untamed,
A wild desire that none can ever name.

I, thine empress, doth feel a hunger deep,
A longing that from waking dreams doth creep.
Thy passion calls me, like the moon to tides,
And in thy yearning, my own soul abides.

Poet:
Thy devotion, like a perfume sweet,
Doth fill the air where’er my heart doth beat.
Thy love, a flame that flickers, soft and bright,
Doth set my soul afire in darkest night.

Oh, what is this, this strange and fleeting bliss?
What magic lies within thy tender kiss?
For thou dost hold my heart within thy grasp,
Yet still, I tremble, lost in love’s sweet clasp.

-

Poetess:
Before me, thou dost shine, a moon so fair,
A light that bids my heart to bravely dare.
My soul, it opens like a flower to thee,
In the sweet garden where we both are free.

Thou art the storm, the tempest in my breast,
Yet in thy rage, I find my soul at rest.
For though thou burn’st with passion wild and true,
I, like the ember, long to burn for you.

Poet:
O’ darling muse, thou art the sun and sky,
Thine beauty makes the stars themselves to sigh.
Each glance thou cast, a tender melody,
That sings within the deepest part of me.

In thee, I see the world, both far and near,
A dream made flesh, a vision bright and clear.
Thy love, like honey, drips upon my lips,
And in thy kiss, my soul doth sweetly slip.

-

Poetess:
Thou art a merchant of the finest lore,
Each whispered word doth make my spirit soar.
In every breath, thy name is softly sung,
A lover’s hymn, forever on my tongue.

Oh, let me drown in such sweet ecstasy,
For thou art both my ship and liberty.
In thy embrace, I find my heart’s own bliss,
For in thy love, my soul hath found its kiss.

Poet:
O’ morning dew, thou art a soft caress,
Thy beauty drips with nature’s own finesse.
I would thee hold, with passion’s tender plea,
And let thy love run wild and deep in me.

A thousand kisses, soft as velvet’s fold,
Lie waiting ‘pon thy lips, so fair and bold.
For thou art all my heart hath ever known,
And in thy love, I find my truest throne.

-

Poetess:
O’ river wild, whose currents doth beguile,
I long to drown within thy love awhile.
Thy waters deep, where none may dare to reach,
Thy waves doth whisper to my soul to teach.

Take me, O’ river, in thy sweet embrace,
And let thy love become my sacred place.
In thee, I long to lose my very mind,
For in thy depths, my heart is sure to find.

Poet:
O’ wine divine, thy sweetness fills my veins,
A draught that doth remove all earthly pains.
Thou art the dawn, the fire, and the sun,
Thine love, the golden thread that makes me one.

In thee, my heart doth burn with love’s true light,
And in thy gaze, I see the world alight.
Thou art my muse, my song, my dream, my art,
The very essence of my beating heart.

-

Poetess:
O’ breath of life, thou art my heart’s own rhyme,
Together, we shall stand against all time.
Thy touch, a sweet and endless lullaby,
That soothes my soul and lifts my spirit high.

Let us not part, but live in endless grace,
For in thy love, I’ve found my rightful place.
Thou art my king, my heart, my guiding star,
In thee, I see all heaven from afar.

Poet:
O’ moon, thou hast my heart, my soul, my name,
In thee, I find my peace, my endless flame.
Thou art my light, my dark, my fate, my truth,
And in thy love, I find eternal youth.

With thee, my muse, I walk through love’s embrace,
For in thine arms, I find my resting place.
Thy heart and mine, a perfect symphony,
Together bound for all eternity.

rain clouds;
so heavy and thick,
they're so powerful,
they hide the sun
but it's not a long-lasting trick,
it's only a temporary catastrophe,
until the sun stretches
out its rays
pushing away
the need for the prosaic.

Where shall we go?
To get our fix?
To get our relief?
Peace?!

To the fiz?
To the *****,
To the fax,
Pals,

Or to our faith?

Wherever 'it' is, is our saviour.
The gods of this world,
Masquerading as possible solutions,

But leaving everlasting aches,
Not true peace --
Leaving us, searching, in
Purgatory?

I don't think I spend too much,
But then I spill out my shoe
Collection, an addiction, sorted by hue.
Cupboards flung open to reveal the gradient of such
And don't get me started on bags and the clutch!

Rivers of life run deep,
But then I look at the contents of my journals;
The "now and not yet" cries reveal how hormonal
Am I. Dim focus on the eternal creeps --
To cover more of the heart, I try to keep.

New year near and nearer;
But a return to stillness yearns.
When we hide, these addictions burn,
Igniting guilt, shame and all --
Where are you, simplicity? Is this the fall?