Failure is a haunting fear
but fear itself is worse.
A deceitful ghost
like the closed door

keyless

now a wall.

Going through the motions of making love
making nothing and feeling undone
Sitting hunched over at the edge of his bed
I'd never admit it but sometimes,
I'd like to be held instead
I've never known the feeling
Of that little spoon
The one that sits in the grooves
Of the other larger half moon
He brings my train of thought to an ugly end
He mutters, " get off the bed, its time to get dressed. "
I leave the room thinking about half moons
And how sometimes even little spoons get used

i hear you carry my name around
in your pocket [instead of on your sleeve]
so convinced that i forgot yours
on the bottom of a glass bottle

[but i could never]

when my mother turned my jeans
inside out to wash
she found your name scribbled
inside, over and over
and over again.

The hills tumbling, daisy stemmed, a floating sea of wild flowers,
white petaled, beaches and waves in rolling summer meadows.
Clouds come, caressing long summer grasses,
blowing sweetly fields, scented warm
before the rain

Thistle crowned flowers cracked, a tiny finch, splitting seeds
swift before the storm, soon flies afar to leafy trees
awaits again the golden summer
of the sun

Because
It's easier
To believe in
A good ****
Than
True love.