We share a dream,
a hope,
of a little tiny house
with a basement
and knives not sold in a set.

Of a dog and a car
and a bed on the ground,
and being a little late on the monthly rent.

Of goodbye kisses
when you'd leave for work
and I'd be off to school.
Of watching snow
off our back patio
and sneaking into the neighbors pool.

Of borrowing each others flannels,
and kissing our noses
and drinking tea in springtime
before I prune the roses.

Of our morning coffee,
yours black, mine sweet,
and I'd still make fun of you
for the way that you eat.

For fights about vinyl
and paint and a movie,
but not about the things
that you shouldn't have done to me.

So we want that,
we both do,
and here's where it stinks
is that you ****** it up
in our fight after drinks.

And I know you regret it,
and I'm sorry to say
that sometimes apologies
don't cut it that way.

I miss you, I do
and you miss me too,
and I want our little house
and our dog and you.

But you put her name
above mine on the list,
and if you asked me a month ago
who I would want to kiss
to you I'd be true
but it wouldn't be me,
if they instead asked you.

We share a dream, a want and a need
for places colder,
for dirt and for skiis.
Of snow caps and pine trees
and people to leave.

But I don't trust you,
with my heart or my mind
and while I still really like you
I can't decide
if it's worth all this trouble
you've shook up in your wake
If your the one with the heart
or the one with the stake.

In rainy countries he waits for the sunrise
because it reminds him of her
The book she loves
is in front of him
With stormy clouds above him
and moist dirt beneath his feet
he waits patiently
She was a memory, which way too long ago
had attached
She was a cold wind, which way to often
settled in his lungs
With a cup of black coffee in his hands
he waits for the moonlight
because it reminds him of her
Her moon-like eyes and milk white skin
How curious, he thought
Both, to be like the sun and the moon
But she was
And way too often he sat outside to see the sunrise
and remember her cheekbones
And way too often he sat outside to see the moon rise
And remember her knees
How curoius, he thought
Both, to be like the light and the dark
in a rainy country







to M.P & A.C

Tall, and sagacious, with unassailable secrets
locked by crooked keys in rusted chests -
stoic glances - upturned lips hiding more I want to see.
I find the mountains of my skin between my fingers,
hands on my hips, squeeze,
push in and battle the duplicities: more or less.
Does he look?
He uses big words I look up in dictionaries
I wonder if he likes complicated clamor of endless infractions
like the books he reads, like the characters he keeps in his
brain's edifice. And I'm volatile, I want to be written, but I know, yes, I know
I should be writing myself.
But I am small, in ways, somewhat sagacious, slightly introverted.
Does that even count?
I stutter, and feel my chest unlock then I'm
grasping at it like hands catching nuts and bolts so heavy
they're slipping through my fingers to dance on the floor.
The pieces I lose
make musical clamor, and I wonder if he's fond of the genre.