"Memories are stored in our body and tissues"
If this is true, then
Your scent clings like tar in my lungs,
Your touch is the goosebumps on my arms,
Your hugs, the aching in my ribs,
And your kisses, the scratches on my lips,
Imagined, unreal, unfeasible

But my longing for you has overtaken my body
Everything hurts, I swear
My knees pop,
My spine compresses,
And my head grows heavy,
My eyes falling shut, almost sewn

My battered corpse yearns for you
But soon I'll be gone with the wind

me.gs

If I treat you like a church
Will you treat me like a headstone?
If you are sacred ground to me
Am I dead and buried beneath you?
If I give you the reverence that thunders through my veins
Will you treasure it like prayer beads
Or anoint every passerby with it
Like blessed water
That you know is really from the tap?
If I touch you like you're made of glass
Will you cut me up with that?
Are you looking for a graffiti artist
Who will scrawl his name on your cheek in mud?
Are you out for blood-
Your own-
In sacrifice to make someone else the temple?
If you are
I fear I will be mumbled like a thoughtless prayer
That nobody really cares the meaning of
And tossed away with a shrug
Like a coin into the collector's basket
Because you know you "should".
The world is my religion
And I see divinity in people.
If I tell you I wish I was shorter
So that I could look up at you
Because it just doesn't feel right to be eye to eye
Will you know what I really mean?
Or will you leave me to wander at night
And wonder why
The church doors are locked
To somebody who worships every waking moment?

I think it was written by men
That God loves us all
In terror of the unspoken thought
That if this brutal world is, in fact,
Divinely planned
To the smallest detail
Then god cannot love at all.
It is written that there is a catch-all acceptance,
A safety net support for the human spirit,
In fear of the un-uttered truth
That nobody loves us all
And so we must love each other
One by one
In place of a god
Who has bigger plans than tenderness.

I try to walk
As if my every step is a lullaby to the soil.
I try to tread lightly
And remember that I am a song
And songs are made
To be heard
To be sung
To be played.
I try to recall
With every step I take
That my voice is trying to reach you.
That you are
Something to sing about.
In a world where
Most people mutter their lives
Like curses under their breath
Which rises in plumes like smoke from chimney stacks
And disperses just as quickly,
I want to echo.
I want to ring
Across the land like a sweet, low bell
And clear the smog for a moment
To let the sun in.
I want to hum
With the brave joy I cannot stand to silence,
The song I sing
Because I know you.

If you are an aging book tossed on an empty shelf
Left to dust,
I will be the librarian who remembers you.

Even in my graying days and wrinkles,
I will find you within the musty bindings
Upon the shelves.
I will pluck you off,
Bypassing all of the others
That try and grab me as I walk
The narrow aisles.
I will push them back into their place
For you are the only one I have eyes on.
I will find you and blow the dust
Off your shoulders.
I will run my fingers over you,
Feeling your cover, your back, your spine
Before opening you and sifting through your pages,
Reading your story and discovering your scars
Where the corners have been folded over.

But I will love you long before
I ever open your cover and begin to read.