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.

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 son,

When you open your little eyes for the first time
and look around at this great big place you will know
your privilege for the first time. I do not say this
as it is a bad thing, but I do not want you to forget.

When you are older you will say that this system is beautiful
they will shake their heads and tell you that this system is white.
This system was built for you upon their bones.
This is not a fault of yours, but you, you are American privilege.

When you become a man and walk down the street
you will not feel the urge to look behind you.
When they call your name you will not feel
fear brewing inside of your stomach; this is your privilege.

When the masses gather at your doorstep and
call for you to come and march with them
do not be afraid to hold their hands and stand beside them.
Let your voice raise to the heavens and merge with theirs.

Though do not think for a moment that this story is about you.
This story is old, has been told long before you.
The roots of your family tree do not grow here in this garden.
This is foreign ground, tread lightly here.

It is okay to feel proud when you stand beside your brothers and sisters.
Do not forget though, when you go home you can take off your armor
shed it like a second pair of skin, but remember that some people
only ever get one set of skin and some armor does not slip off.

You, like I, will go home to the children and drift off to sleep.
We dream and do not wake to worry about those we call family
we will never have to bear this burden.
This, this is our American privilege.

And maybe I too love the dandelion,
As if it was not a ****,
As if it did not turn quickly to seed.

It may be a fleeting passion,
Like that of spring snow,
Like that of low tide.

And maybe rather, I love the bumblebee,
The one perched on the dandelion
The one trying to make a strong home.

Though this too says little,
For what is love if it cannot last?
For what is love if it cannot stay?

For winter will come and they will die,
Yet I endure with winter,
Yet I endure with memory.

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.

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.

Perhaps in another life,
where I learn how to speak
I would tell you the secrets
which you already know.

I would tell you about
a tip of double edge blade
and how it is a metaphor
for my silent heart.

And in this other life
you would forgive me
for never telling you about
how afraid I was to cut.

And I would forgive you
for falling in love with
another heart that did
not share my fear of blood.

Maybe then we can look
at each other for who we
really are and maybe, just
maybe that will be enough.

In another life, I would name you lover,
On my soul, I would carve your name,
let my arms be unswaying walls,
my chest a resting place for your weary head.

In this life, we would be more than poems
written with an unsteady heart and shaking hands.
In this life, I would be the type of man
a woman like you could love.

Here we would not dance on the tip
of a knife daring it to cut, daring it
to shred away the ugly bits.
In this world, our hands would fit together perfectly.

Know, I write these words, not in hope
that you will understand the roaring of
this fire which burns inside of me,
but in hope, you will forgive me for letting you go.

I will not say we were young and foolish
we knew where we were shooting,
but who would have guessed these arrows would
have made a home in our hearts.

And who would have guessed we would
be squeamish at the sight of blood?
Maybe though in another life
we will find redemption for our sins.

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?

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.

I can’t fix your brokenness
or heal those cracks in your
heart left behind from someone
who came before me.

I will not promise you stars,
or diamonds or forever.
These are things that
I simply cannot do.

Instead, I will write you
bad love poems on bar
napkins and sneak
them into your purse.

I will give you the first
lick of my ice cream and
the last of my fries when
yours are already gone.

And when it is two
in the morning  I
will read you children
stories in different voices.

I cannot promise you much
but I will love you the
only way I know how:
with every piece of my soul.

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.

And so at last October dies
On the last breathe of
Crisp autumn air
That lingers in the morning.

On the exhale
November is born
Out of the frozen ground
And fallen leaves.

The months bring us
Further away from summer love,
Born half way between
Rainy days and midnight walks.

Yet the cool that comes
With the night
Has not dulled the warmth
We made under the sheets.

Maybe all love is doomed to die
But soon the winds of December
Will visit our chambers and winter
Is too long to bear alone.

So lets us name each other love
Beside the fire, under the blankets
Until the warmth of faded summer
Return once more.

ack then I  used to believe in forever.
Call me naive but when we together
time no longer had any meaning.
The world was ours for the taking.

We built a shack and called it home.
There was room for the two of us
and that was all we ever needed
our own private forever.

Back then I used to believe in love.
When our lips met I mistaken the rockets
for fireworks but, this was no longer Children's play.
This was not the story we were promised.

Sometimes between the sheets I forgot about the war.
I forgot about those who were dying.
Pretending that these walls were a sanctuary.
Pretending that we, young and alive could not bleed.

But one can only make believe for so long.
These walls were built from wood
and our skin was not armour
and that was not a shooting star.

Back then I use to believe in forever.
Fire does not share my belief.
Flame does not know mercy.
And now all I believe in is ash.

Do you remember,
when we named each other love
beneath the willow?

Do you remember
when we named each other love
beneath the willow?

We taught each other
to believe in forever
and even longer.

We knew this would never end,
we could elude noble time.
Beneath the willow

Under the summer
sun, we shared tales from time long
since faded away.

You asked what I believe in,
I told you my creation myth,
beneath the willow.

We found answers to
all of our greatest question
in each other arms.

Called it our own
happily ever after,
beneath the willow

Then the summer sun
begun to set and the leaves
of the willow faded.

But is this flesh, not
more, than a cell for the soul.
A far greater prize.

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.

By the curve in the river bed,
half way between the unknown
forest and the place you lay your head.
I will be waiting patiently for you.

The letters have all been stamped,
the signs have been given,
pleasant words have all been spoken.

The game is now afoot, and
our faintly beating hearts
have been put forth as wagers.

To lose would be to return to normality,
but to win is to gain the world,
or at the least a companion in it.

Though I warn this may hurt,
either to win or to lose,
there is no going back from here.

So come my dear, meet me
by the curve in the river bed,
throw down your dice,
and take a leap into the dark.

You listen for summer
as if it were a secret salvation
to awaken us from this slumber,
free us from overcoming desperation.

Yet our ******* is too strong,
our words cannot be undone.
We knew we did not belong
there is nothing left to become

Why then, should we not run?
What is left but hopeless pain?
Perhaps our damnation has already begun
Left to darkness everlasting reign.

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.

I myself am nothing more
than a dream of a dandelion seed
which floats endlessly onward
without teleology.

How I envy the river which bathes me,
for what do rivers know of want?
When she bleeds she overflows,
perhaps that is all she has to teach.

Yet before the river, I am but a
eager disciple of winter,
of greens turnt to whites,
of grey migrating geese.

Though first I am nothing more
than a dream of a dandelion seed,
which is to say not lost,
but wandering without aim.

As the sun sets tonight
I can not help but envy it,
envy that it does not have to witness the dark,
envy that it does not have to hold the knife,
envy that once it passes below the horizon it will bleed no more.

My God, how I wish I was the sun,
to know that tomorrow I will rise again.
My God, how I wish I knew I had tomorrow
or at least a tomorrow where the scars will no longer be there
to remind me how I built this house myself.

But still, I am sitting here,
watching the sun die wishing I could too.
I do not have noble words for this,
I do not have a ready solution.
So I sit here praying to see tomorrow’s sun.

My mother always said
do not get too close to that which burns against the night.
If you touch something that is hot you will get burnt.
For what is a cup of water against the inferno.

When I met you,
burning like a spring wildfire,
turning brown to a hundred colors of red
I knew not to get to close.

I have known fires like you before.
You are the type that consumes everything.
Your kiss is a little to hard,
only leaving behind the taste of ash in my mouth.

You see I once knew another conflagration like you.
Her flame glowed liked heavenly fire.
I knew I had to touch her,
forgetting everything mother told me about getting to close.

Soon we burnt together, lighten up the sky like manhattan.
But it is true what they say about the brightest of fires,
they are always the first to burn out.
When her flame turned the other way, I burnt out.

Yet now another fire,
just as beautiful appears in front of me.
Though this time, I remember mother’s words.
My heart, still blistered from the old burns.

I knew now not to touch, but watch from the distances.
I could say I love the flame that was you,
the one that warmed my face like summer sunshine,
but how can you love without touching?

Like a fool I gathered water,
splashing it against the wall of your flames.
Trying to cool my to be lovers hand,
but how was I to know she too could drown.

You see her mother told her something too.
She said watch out for wave that lap against your ankles,
they try to pull you under, and your lungs,
they cannot handle that kind of pressure.

In my hubris I pulled under the flame,
drowning her in my waters, trying to claim her as mine.
But this time when the winds shifted,
I was the one to leave the coals smoldering.

If I could run,
Like I did when I was a child,
I suppose I would already be gone.

And if this barely beating heart was not
Already blackened like moonless night,
I suppose I would still be named fool.

And if fire was forgiven,
Perhaps it would have burnt that house
To the ground, killing hope.

Then again, maybe it is true what they
Say about the burn becoming addictive,
Maybe that is why I still dare at love.

In that moment we
had forever together,
though never enough.

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.

For if I were a better man,
I would not write this poem
I would not call up these
dormant words from their sleep.

And if I were a stronger man,
I would build you a strong house
out of big logs cut with my calloused hands.
Instead, all I have is a few weak words.

If I were anything other than this,
I would paint you with a metaphor
of a red moons against blackened sky.
Yet I write no metaphors.

And if a starving man refusing
to eat the food in front of him,
he is called mad, so call me mad
for never writing you your poem.

For if I were a better man, I would
have written that poem which reads:
I love you, I love you, I love you.
And that would have been my Mona Lisa.

Last night it rained again
and with every drop,
I was trying to find God.

Because how else
would you get to earth,
from heaven, if not from spring rain.

Then as water began to
slip through my clothes
and kiss my skin

I wondered if he even
comes here anymore.
I am not sure I would.

How great is my envy
that when the curtain
finally set
you did not look back,
no matter how hard I prayed,
you never look back.

They asked me what
my heaven would look like.
At first I hesitated in
a fear of being blasphemous.

Then I said that heaven
would be a thousand
Sunday mornings with
fresh sheets and a pretty girl.

It would be that summer hit
on an endless loop
from the year we thought
would never cease to end.

Perhaps it would be
back on Lombard Street
back before my heart got heavy
and souls got dark.

Heaven will bring back
the innocents that was
lost, the same we thought
could never be returned.

Best of all heaven will be
you in a sundress;
young and smiling,
and completely free.

This time, unlike the other times
you are not sure you can
drag this tired body back to the shore,
you're not even sure it is worth the trouble.

After the long calm the storms return
with the wrath of the gods behind it;
how can a mortal man withstand
such a hopeless battle?

Yet in the midst of moonless night
she came and gave life to my barren lungs
how could I not think she would stay
even when storms raged on.

Now she is gone like the others
but this time I do not know if
I can survive on my own
like the times before last.

God forgive me for loving
her while she was here
and God forgive me for
hating her now she is gone.

Upon my fingertips I have counted
the number of times my heart has been broken.
The number of times I have said no more.
The number of times I have said once more.

You, my middle school love,
our lips may have never meet but
our 13 year old hearts collided
like high speed cars crashing
somewhere between lunch time hand holding
and secret under table notes meant only for our eyes.
Three days after eighth grade graduation
I could still feel the warmth of you lips upon my check.
That summer when we said goodbye
I understood the law of gravity for the first time.

Now to my freshman crush.
The one that all the boys chased,
the one who I thought I could court.
We shared late night conversations,
giving each other secrets that we only told the dark.
I like a fool forget the law of gravity and jump once more.
You though taught me that sometimes
love is not always cupid’s arrow.
Sometimes love is not always handholding and lip kissing.
Sometimes love is simply secret sharing
and late night conversations.
Sometimes love is just a shoulder to cry on,
when love doesn't work out with someone else.
I am sorry that I had to walk away before I learnt this.

Finally I come to you,
you my high school sweetheart.
The one who was suppose to heal my brokenness
and show me why middle school love,
and freshman crush never worked out.
I lost in darkness forgot that you were not
the light to illuminate my path but you were just a girl.
A girl who fell in love with the broken boy,
who fell in love with the idea of love.
The only way the story of a girl who fell to hard
and a broken boy can end is with a tear.
I am sorry I could not love you the way
you needed to be loved, like how I needed to be loved.

Now it is senior year and these hallway
are filled with ghost that use to hold my hand.
Middle school love is now just a stranger
who I once shared a bus seat with.
Freshman crush now only exist in
long forgotten Facebook messages
and stray glance in the hallways but
not longer do we share secrets.
The girl who fell to hard no longer
looks up when pass in the hallways.
The memories that we shared have faded

And I, I say no more.
No more hearts shall I break
No more heartaches shall I feel.
No more I will say and say again
until I say once more once again.

I wonder If Summer knew what Autumn did
would she soon forgive?

For greens will quickly turn to gold
not one will weep for lost.

The sun may shine the brighter,
But I think, not as hot.

And nights will grow the longer,
And moons will bring the frost.

And soon we will forget of Summer’s love,
Soon will forget of all she was

And If Summer knew what Autumn did
would she soon forgive?

Into the dark I walk
with an armful of broken promises
and of armful of empty bottles.
Waded down only by a backpack
packed tight with regret.

It is easy to fall in love
with a certain kind of darkness
so I keep walking
pertaining stories like mine
can have a happy ending.

This earth is not forgiven
she does not forget,
perhaps it is better to leave
my heart where I left it
and keep walking into the dark.

I want to feel the soft embrace of a lover
on a lazy Sunday morning
clothed only in shattered sunlight.

To inhale deeply and exhale slowly,
beneath a summer sun
after a long winter.

I want to sleep like a child
after playing make-believe
under the oak tree with the tire swing.

To pray in the chapel
asking God to forgive us
for missing this moment.

I want to laugh again
and forget about tomorrow
and even yesterday.

To teach this heart
how to love again
and accept love in return.

I want a consuming passion
like a spring wildfire
completely engulfed

To be freed
in the morning breeze
lost in the hope of absolution.

I want a home like that
of my childhood before
the world swallowed me home.

I want to be free like
a leaf that has fell into
a stream yet does not drown.

I want to love like a consuming
fire and I want to
be consumed in return.

I want to run away
and never look back,
yet still I want to return.

I want to feel whole
no longer filled with holes
that fill the empty with dark.

I want most of all
to no longer want,
to be at peace.

The best kiss I have ever known
is the one spring always brings
after winter loosen its cruel grip
that has frosted around our necks.

At first, you don't see her coming.
Like the first rains of the year,
the one that you said would never arrive.
Yet still she appears in front of you.

Your heart will quicken,
beat like the wings of geese
who have been waiting all
winter to fly home.

Next, you feel the warmth of her breathe,
like the soft southern wind
that melts the ice back to water
and peels away the snow.

She is even closer now,
you can see deep into her eyes,
they are the color of freshly sprouted grass
that always peaks out from the last snow.

As quickly as the tulips blooms
your lips touch, though she does not linger.
With the setting of the bright May sun
she breaks away with the sun.

She is gone now, just as she came.
You knew this would always end,
but do not worry, she always come back
when the winds of winter shift.

There once was an old maid who lived by the sea.
She summoned words from the waves, like Poseidon, the king.
With each splash on the shore, a tale would be spoken.
It was said when she spoke, dreams turned to pictures in the air,
and danced all about, likes leaves on a mid-autumn day.
Men came from far and wide to hear stories from this maid.

One day when her patrons gather around, she told of a maid
from a far distant town. Fair and young, she was a wife to the sea.
She swore a vow, to stay as pure as her love, for all of her days.
She captained her ship better than any man, even the kings
of the oceans who loved the sea long before she ever touched air!
When the Lords saw her past no words need to be spoken.

For the most noble of words were not as powerful, as the ones left unspoken.
Across the lands men spoke of her beauty in their traveling tales.
Though she gave them no notice, for she only cared for ocean air.
The world grew to know our fair maiden as the Lady of the Sea.
To our stories woe, there was a man who wish to be her king.
When the Lady of the sea, made harbor on one summer day.

The man and his host waited in the shadow, to make war that day.
Our lady, sorely outnumbered, made battle more fierce than ever before spoken.
As the sun begun to set, she yielded for her men and named that man her King.
On that blood bathed beach a wedding took place, to darken our tale.
And so with the rise of the moon came the rite of wedding night. Though the sea
never forgets any vows that was spoken in its air.

The lady woke from her slumber and went to breathe the salty sea air.
Yet she smelled nothing but the munade smell of day.
In panic, she ran with haste toward her true lover, the sea.
As she went to step into her water, her foot felt like fire! It was spoken
that the her cries could be heard around the sea, if we trust the tales.
The man who wanted her to call him King,

ran away from the lady and left her to her true King.
All around her, the pain she felt radiated into the air.
Her sea had forsaken her. Now all she had left was her tales.
Banished from the sea, to the end of her days!
Her only thing left, was the words spoken
from the sea.

Now our lady, tells tales by the sea, of days
when she left the words unspoken
when she was the Lady of the sea.

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.

Lately every poem I try to pen
comes with only two or three broken stanzas,
the kind that taste oddly familiar like daily morning coffee,
the first stanza, of course, is a complex and twisted metaphor.

I write about new England summers
or late spring snow,
or a red moon I am still trying to forget,
but really, I am writing about learning to let things go.

The second stanza talks about the empty,
which is to say nothing,
which is to say everything,
which is to say her while she was still here.

And if there is a third stanza, it is of course her,
as if she did not leave more scars than not,
as if she did not remember how I tried to stop the bleeding,
as if any of it matters anyways.

Now I am not trying to be spiteful,
but I just don’t know how to be happy anymore,
I don’t even know how to be anymore,
though God knows I am trying.

So yesterday I wrote a poem with five stanzas
about a crow perched on a ray of broken sunlight,
though I suppose this too is a metaphor,
it at least does not look like her.

Love is dead.
We have killed her.
Unclean hands grasp
at blacken throats.
No room left in
this world for love.
Let her pale hand go.
You wanted this.
Remember?

What happens to love not returned?

Does it die in the same way
the fish on the river bank dies?

Does it collapse under the
weight of all this air?

Perhaps it lives on, stuck
scornfully in an unwanted life.

Screaming, a banshee’s scream,
envious of the fates it preaches.

The curse of immortality seems
to be the fate of unreturned love.

To beat on against the rising sun.

Sometimes we fall in love with the dark
and I of all people, know this best.
Sometimes we are too broken to
be healed by anything this world has to offer.
I have read this story a thousand times.

When I was 17 I learnt at 2 am
when you are not yet asleep,
and the voices have been
screaming inside of you for hours
your only friend is the darkness that surrounds you.

When her hand fits so perfectly within yours
how can you asked for a better lover?
She has always been there for you,
even when the rest of the word left
and you didn’t know, if you will see tomorrow.

And there has been so many days were
I didn’t know if I would ever see tomorrow.
Still early in the morning she has always
called me back before the sun as risen.
I have always came back.

There was a girl whose
smiled was beautiful as spring snow
and just a fleeting.

Her eyes were like
gateways to heavens
I no longer know if I believe in.

Her voice summoned
this once dead heart
back to life.

And if I was a better man
I could have spent a lifetime
painting her with my words.

Though a man like me
knows  it is better to leave
happy endings for fairy tales.

How strange is it, cruel Fate,
that the stories you write for me
never end as poetically
As the ones, I have written for you.

I may not be Icarus, but I know
what it feels like to be consumed.
Though I am sure that he once loved
the sun too, before you penned his poem.

Spring snow does not endure,
it is not in its nature to stay,
just like Icarus and
just like me.

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.

My love would not heal you,
it would not bring rest to weary bones,
nor set you on fire with passion.

I will not be like your past lovers
or you favorite book
I do not know how to love like that.

But I would love you poetry
and broken words for that is all I have.
Yet, we both know that is not enough.

They say to love
you must first love yourself
for without that you
have no foundation to build.

Which is to say my love is sacrilegious
for the hollow within me
has always remained hollow
but I have not stopped loving.

I have loved the misty rivers
on the cool mornings before the sun.
I have loved the turning of pages
and things laying upon them.

And for what is worth I loved her
even if it was only for a moment,
even if it was a mistake,
don’t you dare call it phantom.

My love is a blanket even if
I have not yet learned
how to fold myself in it
It is still real.

I still bathe it in the river
I still call it mine even though
I do not consume its fruits,
its flesh is not plastic.

One day I may fill what is mine to fill,
but til then I will not stop
with what you call “unholy loving”
because it is all I know how to do.