Handsome shades of murk crackle the joints in your bony fingers while she drapes purple towels over a broken window no one has bothered to sort.  It's a quiet and moldy sort of night, with even a starry sky lying shamelessly over tranquil lakes under closed willows. There are no secrets though between her eyes and yours, who find joy in absently breaking the bleached porcelain cups your in laws bought, on this blood stained floor. With all this abstracted silence dying to burn your dog hearing thoughts, she finally manages a whisper.

'Dare not let the light in and wake you from this memory.
It might be putrid but it's the best you'll ever have'

   Leaning back, the chair you sit on sobs wordlessly about the strain of living and the piles of laundry no one has bothered to fold. The moon overlooks your surroundings, watching pine trees in the distance exhale their last breath and drop weights of hope omitted from the stars for this Earth. Perhaps ignorance is bliss or someone cut off her ears and yours because no one turned to notice while those same pasty fingers count back the pages ripped out of old journals, all meant for her. With all the trains missed and reminders dismissed,  you realize who's caught in a fog of sighs.

  She paints your portrait in distress because she'll never finish what once was. Termites are biting the wooden legs of this chair and rotting is the flesh on your arms. Reflecting back on your life is worth nothing more than a refrigerator note she scribbled on for last weeks groceries and now she sleeps in a place far more silent than in a coffin deep under roots where some proud oak trees once stood. Being found in the middle of a lost labyrinth with her hand no longer warm, you finally manage a sentence.

'Who cares about the dying trees, I'm running out of paper.
She might be dead but well alive in a writer's promise'

17/11/13

Folks speak of the lost boys once a midnight orchid blooms.
Of where they play and hide by a moonlit bay and sandy coast.
Without a care or a house, finding shelter under wise trees holding hands as a shack.
They ease the strong winds of November with rusted strings,
plucking notes with muddy fingers, they hum the usual song pulling splinters off their minds.

And there is rain that drowns the dancing melancholy in their little hearts,
as rippling ocean waves imitate their breaking bones and pulse.
As the thunder beats of laughter and of sorrow,
wooden guitars tap out the tearing droplets that spill from their sleepy thoughts.

Coffee rings,
from cups shared over dreams we altered carelessly.
With each roasted sip of warmth consumed
they stained these pearl satin sheets once more.

My innocence tainted by your words,
                                   lies,
                                 and promises
                      (of a faraway place you said you would take me)


I'm left here floating with soft clay drying on my frantic clammy palms,
unfinished and without shape are the stars you left me hanging onto.

I'm left here following a trail of steps on this grainy fine path,
overgrown with weeping weeds are the eyes that watch me follow dust.
                                                                    

(lost and gone with the laughing wind)

Have days ever taunted you to be candid,
                                 impulsive, and
                                    driven by lust?

Have words ever burned the tip of your thoughts, or
                                   the coffee you sip with the tip of your tongue?
          
Have eyes ever stole a glimpse of your heart, or
                                   the leaves off trees when the wind gets too hard?

                                                                                                                                              
You see
This night has just been born, It's maybe about an hour old.
And I know I'm too lonely to handle the things you say,
And you know being too honest leaks translucence
It goes astray.
You see
I have been told before the idea itself is a mimic.
Along lines of a half truth hiding in the droplets,
They're hanging off the metal bar grills
of some balcony
   on the 8th floor
(somewhere)

'Les amoureux de la pluie'

  That's the myth we share sitting across a sea of stars (table) that bound a distance rich in silence and secrets only whispered into budding tulips.
  Ambiguous forms that refer to the weeping clouds to heal scarring burn wounds; we ask for you to madden our burning coal spirits with waves that seem to effervesce as they sweep by.
In those bubbles washing away the endless thoughts we conjure up over elements and matters observed.

You like the smell
of wet pavement
  after it pours
  And
I fail
   to stop thinking
about the little things
you act upon.

The mischievous innocence that frames the corners of your smile force me to lose my structure as a lover. My hands quiver and are weaker than the red and blue fishes swimming across your blouse.
Empty unsealed cartons remind me of your wholesome frown (that i honestly adore) and opalescent evenings overseeing weary city light lit buildings.
I'm kissing the morning Sun through your burning lips, my dear. With sideburns that curl the way lashes should, they are pecking at my ears as we wrinkle these covers and fall asleep again.

Another night pours it's frank sentiments on us. The heavy dew weather blows the earth of it's ample troubles. It clears the grass of burdened footsteps that roam this place aimlessly. With all eyes to the ground, they miss to meet opportunities (happiness) that could be sitting right under their misshaped noses. They can't seem to smell flowers blooming or hear the hearts that need them, so are they even looking for something (as they so claim) or simply looking away?

Among them her eyes darken and hope to be found soon.

  Walk with me a moment, though the air is cold i find your penny plain company warmer than freshly baked bread cooling off by a white window or maybe something sweeter like (you) cinnamon pie. Similar to them, who would rather lie to themselves than face the truth, our tongues split oceans with exhausted explanations for the thoughts we keep lonely and the needs we discard as unimportant. We're pretending to not have feelings or see the seasons that change with each pulsing beat, so has this game even started or will it part with done (love) at first sight?

Between us the lightning strikes and looks to capture our trembling smiles.