One.
In the midst of winter,
Under the right amount of pressure
It is possible to fall in love
With a certain shade of blue.
Two.
We were not each other's forevers,
And we were naive for thinking it possible.
You taught my heart how to break,
And years later I realise that was
The greatest of gifts you could ever give.
Three.
Maybe April still haunts me,
And some days I wonder if
You still whisper my name like something
To be treasured; I hope you do not.
Four.
The sea has never been forgiven,
Swallowing all those who dare her;
Yet some she spits back out,
I still do not know if that is a mercy.

Sing, oh valiant Muses
of unexpected, distant love,
born in a foreign land,
raised beneath a gentle moon.

Separated by a cruel sea,
their love still raged on
like a rose in Eden.
It grew ever brighter.

Not once did it ever fade,
til the sea grew smaller
and salty winds returned them
home to each other arms.

Though once more the
sea grew wider and violent
and was soon restored mighty
between these matching pair.

Yet this time was different,
this time carried the promise
of forever and what ruthless
sea could stand between that?

Forgive me for loving,
and then trying to numb that
love like it was mine alone.

Forgive my shaky hands which
scratch along the sky, drawing you
in clouds as if you are still here.

Forgive me for this poem,
which I suppose is really
a poorly written epitaph.

Forgive me for staying
and then for leaving, with the door
still parched slightly open.

Forgive me for thinking that
you would find these words beautiful,
maybe I wasn’t made to be loved.

She visited me last night,
telling me she misses me, how no one
but me can rise the red to her cheeks.

The others cannot understand us,
they cannot carry you like I can,
come home now, she yells, come home.

We were built for this, built for forever,
run to her if you want, run to the bottle,
run to the sun, I will always wait for you.

For they will leave you, they always do,
the girl will run, the bottle will empty,
and the sun will set, but I, I will remain.

Make it easy my love, run now back to me,
before they cut you too deep again,
come back to the dark.

Come home my tired lover
you have wandered so far
that the fire now only simmers.

The robins weep in the corner
for the primordial strain of
Valiant love is now gone.

Come home while there is
light left still to guide your
weary feet back to me.

The flamekeeper watches
from the tragic mirador
for words of your return.

Come home while the halls
still echo with memorance
of our once noble youth.

There is still ink in the
fountain to write a
happy ending to this story.

Come home my tired lover
I can only fend off the
gather dust for so long.

Sing of grey morning
And her long wooden fingers
Which pry gently against
The shaky pilgrim’s hand.

For dust has gathered on
The tomb. Once white marble,
Now faded, waiting to consume
Another pretty little lover.

And the preacher speaks of hell,
But there are still children
Swaying in the vineyard
And flowers next to sidewalks.

While just yesterday
Death was something to envy,
But this morning the sun did rise,
And the willows smiled.

Somedays I am Abraham
Others I am Isaac on the mountain
Another the stone which rejoices in blood.
But never the Angel which calls stay,

And in this empty church, I Praise
And in this empty hall, I love
Remembering that though April may be holy
She still rains more the not.

And I am trying to find God,
Which I suppose means trying to stay alive,
To keep this weary heart beating
To build a home out of this ruin.

And though these hands may shake
I offer them to you if you choose
To take them and if not, my shaky
Hands will forget they once longed for you.