Words are not always compiled into heart stopping love letters.

Memories do not always spur intoxicating nostalgia.

The sky is not always that awe inspiring shade of baby blue perfection.

Crayons are not always yellow.

Sometimes, they are black.

Sometimes, darkness is the ideal absence of color needed to complete the masterpiece.

Do you remember
What we talked about then?
Lit by the thin moon and under the stars
They praised us like pedestrians praise oncoming cars
And we were inside, solving crimes
When we dug our graves that night

And I miss your touch like tomorrow's sun
Misses the moon and the horizon
It's a shame that it's the truth
A hundred bottles down are you still the sleuth
You were back then? With your tongue made of poison

when my son was younger
he asked -

how old are the mountains
from where did the First People come
why does the sun sleep in the ocean
what is the color of rain

now that my son is older
stronger, wiser and bolder
he asks -

how old are the mountains...
...what is the color of rain


some things don't change.

The moment their lips met
he recoiled promptly.
For he knew that every action has
an equal or lesser reaction,
and he did not want to be pursued.
Not even by Aphrodite herself.
The girl with bones chiseled from ivory.
The girl with skin smoother than silk.
The girl that kisses the boys and makes them die.

I re-experience her,
here,
yes here.
The joy that was lost long ago.
We share again,
we smile again.
I remember the only thing,
the river,
the warmth.
I confess,
something never said before.
We share again,
we smile again.
It wasn't meant to be,
but still,
I wait,
here,
yes here.

I want to softly whisper
incomplete poems
on your collar bones
that don't rhyme with anything
but your heavy breathing.

I want to bury my face
in the curves of your neck
because you smell like the winter clouds
and I've been gazing at the sky
since you left.