Dark and nostalgic,
like a cold atmosphere of night.
Brighter as glitters,
like the stars up in the sky.
                    Just like you,
beautiful and mesmerizing,
as i could see is your face.
Sweet and minuscule,
as i see my world inside your eyes.
It's pretty amusing,
like my aspiration and strange fascination
that i would like to reiterate
                       to you.
I can keep myself silent
but it's deafening like
deep inside my heart,
it shouts and bellows
that it'll make perfect,
                   to be with you.
You can be hard and fierce.
rough and rugged.
And if your love takes torture,
i can be mellower as what i see in your heart.
Passionate and reckless,
like obnoxious things.
but i can take it easy and simple.
it won't be hard.
It doesn't get any better than you.

Another great scenario of the universe
that comes over a hundred years;
once in a lifetime.

So wonderful and beautiful
delusions gone, reality reveals.
a bright glimpse of moonlight
a hidden beauty.

It is such a good thing, the universe
can wait for a thousand years.

December
and anyone in the
woods could see the five
idiots on the back deck.

wrapped in blankets
and circled up like
Indians who drink cranberry
Canada Dry ginger ale.

Saturday afternoon
empty house
i wish i felt
different.

sunshine flickering
through the steam between
my fingers and over the
furry blanket.

i've always liked looking
out the back windshield
with swollen eyes at
what i'm leaving behind.

home again and
nothing is different
it's just i've
gotten worse.

and i'm crying
when it hits me
i'm finally
alone.

but i have a
blanket to wrap
myself up in
so everything's fine.

I almost wrote a poem
saying it would be
the last one
I ever write for you.
                   I almost meant it.
But I reside in a forest of words
I long to lay upon your feet.
You are the only tenant.
Though I have already seen you hunger
for a wood more abundant with beauty.
You yearned
for the abstract; the colorful.
This is where I failed you, love,
for all I have to offer
is the pattern of my handwriting
against a bleak sheet of paper.
How is that to contest
a canvas
that turns heads
with its baby pinks and powder blues?
So I lay here
in the woods
that swarm with lost things,
longing to see the sun again.
And I am always reaching
      and reaching
             and reach i n g
But I am never quite there.
I lay still in the forest
with an abundance of almosts.