when it began:
dissonance.
a mind disjointed,
filled with a million words,
a thousand broken promises
and maybe a few nolstalgic memories.
there's nothing to romanticize when
everything collides.

A lonely hour catalyst:
chain reactions like fast paced domino sets,
falling rapid and helpless,
trailing below.
wavelengths of a thought process contaminated by restlessness.

note:
let sleeping poets lie (awake)
to dream out their dreams
and make futile wishes on dead comets
and empty sunrises.

this house is cool and dark,
occupants in the meleé of sleep:
outwards, peaceful;
inwards, facing demons and dark fantasies.

Morning light ushers through glass and open panels, gently probes,
but to no avail....they lay rest in quiet.
I greet her at the window with a tired smile.

we know each other well.

awake, I am.
dreaming, I am not.
but who's to say it isn't an illusion
since no one else can tell me so?

stuck at crossroads. urge to feel and  taste outside air.
Morning and I will leave the quiet residents to sleep in,
and I will run my restless bones
until I know the world once more.

all i ever do is ache. there are places where the color in my cheek blotches and it is in those spots that resides a quiet desperate yearning for the touch of your lips--

tears leave just as many wayward streaks as dripping paint on canvas, only i'm not art.

how can I miss the hands that I never even got to hold?
i'm pretty sure palm readers know more intimacies than any soul on earth. i have yet to discern a single line of yours. or our lines. where do we begin? lines are infinite but existence is but a piece. does that make our love a line fragment? or are we more substantial than that?

how do i miss old places that i've never been to? i can't remember if color value was the same as valuing us. One can only make shapes when there is light and shadow but i'm not sure how to shade us from impending erasure on this page. how can i reminisce about the touch of your skin when all I got was a brief glance off your arm? i swear it made a mark on me but i never once could find it. my bruises still linger though. darling, is it possible to love without letting go?

these are the things that consume me.

i.
I have a bad habit of flirting with thunder and lightening.
but it seems you don't mind, fellow storm.

ii.
You might consider yourself fluid, but what about in the sheets?
They say the largest bodies of liquid are pulled by the moon's magnetism and honey, we are 90 percent water--
I guess that makes us pretty wild. Let's converge.

iii.
Weave me like you weave your words and I swear I'll set us both free.