In the end you will not remember summer coming.
Still she will appear in a May breeze
As if you asked her to, as if she could save you.
Though you know all too well how this story ends.

She asked about the scars winter left,
Wanting to place together a story to makes sense
Of the coldness that still has not been warmed by her winds.
Yet some secrets aren’t meant to escape the hearth.

You will not know how to love them both,
So you will choose winter again, at least the cold doesn’t leave.
And summer will not understand, she will hate you for this,
And because you are a fool you will let her.

The cruelest prison
is inside the indifferent
lover who could never
be enough to free us.

You will first say those poisonous words
when you sit side by side on a lazy
Saturday morning or maybe as you watch
the ocean make a lover out of the beach.

You will not mean it then, and maybe never.
This does not make you Cain or Jezebel,
you just don’t know how to give yourself
away like frosted grass on a late spring morning.

When you hand her your goodbye on a silver platter,
you will want her to hate you for them,
it is better now than later because she will leave
with stories just like all the other ghost.

Fast forward and you will find yourself once more
on the couch or staring at the sea, but this time
she is no longer holding you down like
the old rusty anchor on the wall of the garage.

Though this is no longer something to think about,
she was never anything more than a distraction,
or so you still try and tell yourself,
It is better to burn down the house before it empties.

You will tell yourself it is because you like the loneliness,
this will not be the first lie you said today,
but you know that loneliness loves you,
And sometimes it seems that is the only thing that does.

They speak of God in the forum,
self-proclaimed prophets yell
of the different color fires waiting
to consume this weary body.

What, though, can they teach me of hell
when my head is a dance hall for demons.
I know too much of your God,
I can promise that he is not mine.

For my God rejoices not in the simple
smell of brimstone and smoke,
but rather in the full moon smile
on to be lovers faces.

My God does not believe in your hell.
My God is the god of the broken hearted,
of the fools, of those who always go too far.
My God is a loving god.

So keep your vengeful God,
keep your hate-filled prayers,
keep your Pharisees,
and I will keep mine.

I still think of you sometimes.
The way your yellow tips curl.
The way your words scream like
a caged beast, longing for freedom.

I will not lie, you were my masterpiece,
so perfectly carved, gilded in gold.
A final rebellious manifesto,
something one could fall in love with.

For the first time I felt like I was understood,
the way you held my name
like something to be treasured,
I have never known love like that.

Though you are a jealous lover,
the kind I do not know how to love anymore.
Maybe it is because I am afraid of forever,
Or maybe I am afraid to let this loneliness go.

Sometimes I still think of you,
but I can not be with you.
For if the sadness is to leave too,
what would be left?

Dear Future Lover,

I am waiting for you like spring
after the long winter,
like the wretched poet
waiting for his muse.

Perhaps you are already here,
perhaps you are far away,
but worry not my love,
for already I call for you.

Soon our hands shall lock
like gates of a strong keep,
soon our knees shall kiss the ground
as we whisper “I do” to forever.

Together we will build a home
filling it with the laughter of children.
Together we will build a road
to carry each other to heaven.

Oh my love, heaven is not far off,
for the children will grow and
soon have children of their own,
filling this house with laughter again.

Though someday the laughter will end,
replaced with joyous weeping.
know now my dear,
we are destined for much greater things.

The gift of man will not escape us,
nor should it, one of us will linger,
the other force to depart.
Do not fear this end.

So I wait, my love, I wait,
as the fisherman does for dawn.
I wait for you to grasp this
wanting hand from the dark.

If in my right hand
I held the gilded world,
And if my left laid empty
I wonder what you would take.

And if someday, If this
love could not be divided,
I wonder if it would
Carry us to heaven.

Though I am not Icarus,
I will not promise heaven
But maybe I can promise
The wanting left hand.