Autism prays for...
Chuck E. Cheese
Maya and Miguel
Huey, Dewey, and Louie
Mom and Dad
Pizza rolls
Subway sandwiches
Grannie
Greeney phantom
dogs,
the Brady Bunch
His greatness
His provision
and comedy cartoons
to watch all day.
**Amen

What do you say
when someone asks you to love them forever
and your answer is no?

He is the juxtaposition of
harmony and the silence between each note.
He thinks in staffs and scales,
breathes out melodies.
He is the song I sing in the quiet,
a song with no words
no limitations.

Let your beauty shine
through this earth-worn shell.

Show your love to all
with this dirt-***** body.

Point others to you with
these ****** hands and
whisper words of comfort
through these cursing lips.

We want to help the broken
and the hurt but
our cold hearts won't melt.

These clouded eyes can't see
past their own sorrows.

You bring the widows and orphans
and watch us stumble past them.

How lost,
how defiled are we,

*Your chosen people.

My skin is blank sheet music,
and you begin to craft a
song with me.
We write an entire
symphony upon each other,
practicing arpeggios and scales
until each one is
perfectly blended into the next,
one movement cannot be distinguished
from the other.
You begin your overture,
striking chords along
my collar bone and ribs,
each tone lovingly clear.
You are the real composer,
the maestro,
the cellist.
I am simply your muse,
your baton,
your bow.
The reprise begins to fade,
our breath comes back to us,
and we treasure the invisible
notes, rests, and tempos
that played across our skin.

Things are slipping,
sliding,
careening,
inevitably out of my control.
When did the ropes I tied so carefully
begin to
fray?
When did the hands that held everything
begin to
fatigue?
Were there hints;
subtle looks and comments that
shot past my naive senses?
There must have been.
Because now he's slipping,
sliding,
walking
out of my grasp.
Leaving.
The unspoken reality that pierces a
hole in me no amount of
faked enthusiasm can repair.
Intentions are good,
minds are innocent,
but tensions are high.
I want the best for both,
but only think of one.
It's rough.
Like the proverbial sand I'm
trying to stop from escaping
my grip,
but not as rough as realizing
*there's nothing I can do

The very day Creativity slipped a ring
on her finger,
they were wed.
Bound together by a compelling
need and desire
to be together,
to stay together, and
inspire together.
He let her run free,
knowing she would always
come back to his embrace,
for she craved the solace only he provided,
the expressions he alone understood.
They were beautiful,
and the ideas they lovingly crafted together
were beautiful,
if only to them.

She loved him because he was always there
when she needed him,
yet he was his own entity,
independent,
and could not be forced or coerced
into making something out of thin air.
He loved her because she tested his limits
cautiously.
She pushed him farther than he
thought possible,
but her results were mesmerizing.
They loved and created together
in a relationship that is
unique
to every pair of eyes that sees them.

Sometimes he will leave her
briefly,
to love another.
She refuses to be bitter because
she knows she is
guilty
of the same act,
sometimes choosing
Reality or
Selfishness
over her dear creative love.
The time apart makes
their reunion sweeter,
more memorable,
and more forgiving.
Some who know them both
will say there's never been a more
full and fragile marriage than the one
between
Creativity and a Free Spirit.