The end of the long night
rest closely upon us
and who will be the
first to finally speak goodnight?

We knew this moment would come
you can only dig so deep
before you hit rock and
to our woe it is not gold.

There is no sin in walking
to the edge, but we would be
fools to jump off now.
To kiss the knife that cuts.

So would it be better to
walk alone into the night
or burn what remains?
For either I fear damnation.

The sun may die still
but I have no fear to love
inside the darkness.

And with you for the
first time I understood the
longing for heaven.

It is late, and there is
a stampede in my stomach
and sleep on my mind
when I first think of love.

Fingertips trembling as
they flirt with novel keys
only to name the
backspace summer lover.

I do not fear love like a
cold needle pressed against
warm skin, rather the
trickle of red to follow.

And it will always follow,
As pale moon follows
the bright sun,
Which follows you.

I guess that is why
I love the moon
and hate the sun,
which is to say, nothing.

If I were to write you a poem
it would sound like the white
waters of a roaring spring river.

I would tell about the bruises
you got on your hands from
lovers who once squeezed too hard.

I would write about those unworthy
lovers, who tried to name you theirs
while not allowing you to do the same.

I would encase it in a golden metaphor
about your wild heart that despite everything
never once decided to stop beating.

I would praise you with my words because
words are that I have to give you,
even when my words are not enough.

And If I were to write you a poem
it would sound like the silence
left behind after you would read it.

If the moon was to fall in
love with the sun
who would fault the moon?

Would it not be blasphemy
for the riverbed not
to grow attached to the water.

And what I know of love,
I have learnt from
wind which caress tree tops.

It is the natural order,
to fall in love with the very
thing one cannot have.

What else would explain the divide
of night and day, the ever
flowing river, and silent wind.

Yet even with this knowledge
my heart still beats like a war drums
when I see your illuminated name.

Give me wild love,
The kind which cannot
Be silent or caged with iron.

Which dwells in the shadows,
In back alleyways,
In barely beating hearts.

Love born in the winter,
Or on the morning bus,
Or on vibrating phones.

Love that grows like sunflowers
Reaching toward heaven
Spreading in the wind.

Maturing with children,
And fleeting seasons
Though never fading.

Undying and unyielding,
Consuming like a wildfire
Leaving only ash behind.