It has taken this long to distill my memories
easing them into the world of potability.
It has taken too long to distill my thoughts
and they have, every evening, gone sour.

I'll throw myself under the bus every now and
again to see how I take it, an
      interesting game for a bit, but
                                 having watched this new man come to terms with
                    my self, I am joyous,
                                        elated,
                                            sprung up like a forget-me-not from the
lack of a pillow, misty mornings, love over my
              head like a river

                            still, rains are heavy - every single night changes something, the comfortable
                   shades of wet, defined puddles reflecting porchlight

do memories really die with us?
  
         no.
                   they are twin steps ahead to immortality, Westward smiles like plains and hills rumbling
                      as mountains of epiphany

            I'm trying to make certain of things that are impossible, goodness
that's enough of that, suppose stubbornly a
                                 change of scenery and open heart can achieve
                anything worth trying

      and she'll never know the picture half strung-out on forgetful
                    chemistry, unless I
                                  paint it just right
at least, that's my
          point of view

A beard to hide the scars
And a bottle to drown the pain.
We don't know who you are,
But we want you screaming our name.

The dust settles on your bare back while you sleep. Sometimes tries to bond back to the skin, but in the morning you shake it again as you rise. It shimmers in the sunlight like smoke. Though patternless, it does not look lost.

To place so much on a
drop of amber is foolish and
perilous and brave and wonderful

the bitter cold grates against my nerves
a pleasant sound, not unlike
that of a violin