I want to write a million poems to you
About you

How can I find the words
I feel so stunned every time I find your eyes looking back at me

A deer in headlights
A moth in your flame
A slow burn

Intricacies of my insecurities and desires lay plainly in my head and a  dumbfounded smile unfolds across my face

I write to understand
To make sense of myself and all the things
I can't find to say to you
in the present

I push the blinds apart and stare widely with a softened smile
As you move further, trotting down the sidewalk of my apartment complex
I squeeze each moment of tightly  
Before you turn the corner

I think
"happy"
because you were there with me

Then sad
with longing

But I know that one who doesn't long for someone or something is stagnate

So much longing has surfaced since we met

The lust for experience
Back again, full frontal

I imagine moving down the calm waters of the San Juan
Me on the oars, you in bow
Setting up camp on the riverside
Finding space and time
to wander through each other's minds
with a campfire to light the way
Expedition talk, you say

Much to conquer, but not you

I want to trek uphill towards your peak everyday
and never arrive

Can you blame me
when each step is sweeter than the last?

These words are my longing
  and I'm so content to sit and let them unravel in our parting

To be loved or
To love
Must we choose?

I am the beloved
Yet I see myself from only within looking out
And believe I
   am just the lover

Unchoosing to be both

In spite of, and thanks to my experience
I believe in the moments where we are both the beloved

Those moments fade
Into cool memories
Cozy in my mind

Until they become stinging cold
Like when my bare foot crunches down into the thin layer of snow halfway the drive to get the mail

Oh how it feels to be the lover
Oh how it feels to be the loved
The lover finds ecstasy in their beloved
Why then must the lover expect anything from the beloved?
Is the gift not in the experience of loving?

What is it to be desired
If you do not know desire yourself?

Will we be ever be satisfied?

I surely hope not.

I want to draw you but my pen knows nothing of your ways

It has no idea how restless you become with breath on your neck
or whispers in your ear

And paper could never hold these moments properly
It doesn’t hear your moan
Or feel your fingers

And only your bed could know of how we grip and hold each other as we fall to sleep

SAB

An ordinary room and childhood bed
   transforms-
A temple buzzing with countless energies.

This entanglement of bodies and emotion becomes a sacrament of liberation.

My fingers intertwined at your sacral, my tongue at your root.
It’s a prayer of pleasing and longing.

An uncontrolled opening of self
At the alter of another.

I've found
so many
hiding places.

Tucked myself neatly
into other people's
lives.

I've found myself
in closets [of my own shame] [of my mother's shame]
where you store the things you'd like to love
but just quite don't.

I dove through masses of clouds I pulled from near by.
I decided to stay beneath them.
All around me hung the weight of the humidity.
It drew my face towards the ground,
where I adored so many beautiful things.
How long though, would I cling to beauty of the ground
as clouds kept me down?

A ray of light slipped between a crack,
It's warmth touched my crown.

As my eyes lifted up, my mind did too.
In the spaces between where the sun shined through,
there was something new.
I rejoiced!
And rejoice to this day for the love the light provided on that gloomy day.
I rejoice to witness the birth of my oldest and most cherished,
friend.

It began gloom and gray
I lay inside all day
My schedule gone to hell
Waking up at 2:00 pm.
A summer day
Ready to be seized
But there I lay.

Dinner plans lighten the day
I gather myself and my things
And make my way.

Drinks follow serendipitously
Of wheat and sweet shrooms
Tracers meet my eyes in all corners
I fall to sleep with a sweet
But lay to my wake all night
So here I speak of this organic happening I call Monday July 16.

If I  had known
how you adored the
snow
I never would
have called the
sun
back home.

And if you had told
me
that puddles
remind you of darker
days, I would
have insisted
we lay inside
during spells of rain.