I've been waking to the sudden throes of intense sadness despite morning sunlight, as if there was infinite darkness in the former breaths shared with a being I was meant to want, and somehow want still, yet this being is a shadowy spell, a glare on glass, a riddle of all my dreamt desires, and somehow also, my attempted reality; somehow also, my doorway to my deserved insanity. A wholeness in this end I cannot find, fight for, grasp, endlessly seek, for knowing somehow this is not my choice, nor my alleviation, not when all the moves somehow belong to him, all accepted actions, all verified decisions, his, all sensible words, his, not mine, never mine, I am simply voiceless, stuttering, adoring, a loving woman's shape, never filled with fiber. Never was my static so ensured, never was my strength so bottled up and stored away, so ridiculous, nonsensical, like a mime locked up in a tower, in so many ways.

I'd have wandered this night with friends.

All our eyes in abeyance towards the beckoning moon, fervid breath mingling with fresh frost rising to the cold stars.
We would move by the zephyrs against the pace I move now.

Tonight, I'd have wandered the night with friends,
had I a trust to openness and a courage for late, lonely hours.

Only the dark quarters or the sweet fall of old trees or the tinkling of unknown stirring could hold me dearly and cure my silent footsteps.

It is not my duty to weep for the pines, and yet, here I am.

It is never enough to share a fence.

Each day I spend my time taking down its boards
one by one
until only our frames are still standing.

Yet we will still collide at the gate
and let our eyes speak our minds.

Until that border is gone
we will remain seated
like stepping stones.

Separate and lonely
and only as close as we allow ourselves to be.

Listen.

When I tear down that wall
your breath can ease deeply again.

Our skin may not touch often
yet my aura has gleaned a dose of your glow
and is deliciously infected
and will kindly keep it for you.

Until the sweat of my palm and the still of my brow
work through the fragments of coyness and blushing
and the razor shards of heartbreak and despondence
your love will be safe with me.

Like each blurred tree
in a roadside forest passed-
I need to write them down before I forget them.

Lost documents
in the peripheral part
of my memory-

Like each blurred tree
we pass in its roadside forest-
Each an ignored pine-
Until you slow down
and take your picture-

All the split seconds
and palpitations
and squirming sacral stirs
centered and waiting to be
arranged into love songs
and rearranged in truths.

What are these now?
What were these before?
These would come around during those moments you would only spend Alone.

In your mind-
On the drive-
Dress after dress
And tire after tire.

All the constants of Alone encourage you to go.

Go and take these variables.

---- ---- ---- ----

Equal parts synthesis and time-
Equal parts senses and pretending-
Equal parts *** and sadness-

These alone would turn your head

---- ---- ---- ----

One was its mirthful trip
Unlocking itself against the damp pearl of the sky.

No windows
and good winter-
Clouds up-

It curled into a road
and led you
and you wanted to close your eyes
and sway
with your car
along that good winter.

You voyaged romantically.

And you thought, ‘yes’-
that this was good.

And you pulled reasons from all around you
and you requested a quest
with all your favorite senses
and this allowed your
to drive down by
that lumberyard
smiling-
like an idiot.
---- ---- ---- ----

One
Under the undeterred eyes of the sanguine, she offers him all her breath, a pale lily in a hackneyed October dress. He fills up all the space without question. For awhile, she considers coy eyes, or nothing at all. For a second, he considers her presence.

Two
The jolted stir comes on as a swell before real time, and occurs just after the establishment of a name, or a likeness, or pretty hands put to work, wiping crystallized adulation into her brow, and her repose was ragged and uncouth and far from her hands, but he would never know that.

Three
Fresh irritation spits at a target truly deserving the claw, charged under frivolity and tardiness, and enduring a verbal revenge at a collective likeness, revamping the smooth glass of his tenorly color into a crow’s call of little patience.

Four (before)
Forget the cold. Forget your pleas overseas. Take your hat, it’s cold tonight. Take a brunette, leave her in the dregs. Through to it, the music’s loud and the night has taken another's pretty hands. Covet the cloves and honey you smeared into your ashy fingers and pretend to give way, only slightly. Run into the fire, eyes closed.

         (after)  
         Even if it was just for this moment’s settling. Even if it felt like the whole and final truth. Even with the valved smoke singinga round you and the crush of bodies folding you closer, and the moon shining directly behind your eyes, it is as if all you’ve ever known was the dark reverence layering her skin.

Five
  Can you impale a dream? A dream may not be gripped, but it has a place of its own. A dream may nest in the ridges over time, and may arise as inexplicable color, but it will ravage the ventral cavity until hope crawls up and over her shoulders, masking the eyes to see something never there before. Can you spot-treat a want so fully self-invested in a recalled series of impassioned pseudo-happenings and fervent miscommunication? Can you **** off the interrogate latched onto each one of your senses? Are you divulged within each unlasting augmented beauty?

Six
         He remembers moments when everything seems to slow down. He remembers how strange it is, to whisper over the grind of a herd. He talks of distillation, as you absorb all this, how in total fairness, in total want, you deserve it. It will intoxicate him, but he shall not let it.  Only in circumstance is a cheap cup born by trembling maidenhands, unbound by hometown lovelies and swerving.

Society hates variety. So narrow we becom,e and done for the day with thinking. We are only making deadly syntax as finalization instead of opinions that shift and morph, and rise and fall like tide,s and beg for colors from the earth. All titles allow us to choose but one color one shade one detail. One detail means one fraction. One fraction for every entity for the sake of a name.