I need you with me always or else never at all, for the leaving is too much to bear. There is only a single fixed point in this chaotic sea that is my soul, and that is love; a suffocating, drowning obsession with that which is near, near but not yet arrived.
     The death of me has vast brown eyes and a laugh that tastes like flight, and his smile is made of sun. I cannot breathe when he is away, nor when he presses his lips against my skin; I am breathless to the point of death, and it is as heavy as the whole of time condensed into the span of a few seconds.
     I want this suffocation or else nothing at all; this terminal lack of air or else the void of darkness that surely exists in death if a love like ours cannot endure.
     Hold my hand all the days of my life, or else never touch me again. I cannot bear this in between.

A starless night, save for the city lights.
Keep the rain to yourself; I prefer to drink my lightning dry.
Have you ever wondered why you keep having that dream? Have you asked?
Perhaps the things we feel we should have been born to do are things we've already done.
Perhaps all you are is a scratch on someone's favorite CD. Haven't you ever thought?
No.
See, I'm the character that always survives in the Greek tragedies of old. You know, the one no one needs to root for. But I tire of watching my friends expire.
The runway lights aren't all that visible from way up here, but I suppose that's alright. I'm good at crash-landing. Surely that counts for something.
The people and their secrets.
Hiding in the light. I cannot stand it.
Why is it that some cannot feel the electricity?
I cannot fathom, I cannot imagine. Why are we not all wired for such things?
Leaving you is like walking across an oyster reef barefoot in ankle deep water.
Yeah, ouch.
I do not want to say goodbye anymore. I do not.
I do not wish to endure the rain alone any longer. I do not.
No.
The only way I even stay sane is by pretending the thunder is your heartbeat, don't you see?
But even so, there is no substitute.
There was only ever one, after all, until I found you. And now, I am beautifully lost and confused.
I scream at the sky, but it does not heed my cries.
Oh, how I ache.
Oh, how I crumble, like some tired temple.
So, finally, I am silent. For, second only to you, silence is my safest place.

You are fire in the night.

A glittering sigh whispers across an indigo canvas, painting pinpricks of cool light along its way.
The stars shine coldly from their pockets in the sky.
But you.

You are fire in the night.

The moon-washed trees shiver beneath the cool gaze of the stars.
The stars. They are ice, they are snow, they are a biting winter wind.

But you.

You are fire in the night.

A ribbon of river dances off into the fading evening sun.
I am tiptoes in the day; in the day, I fall like water.
In the day, I want to stay; in the day, I do not falter.
But by darkness, I am dust.
I am flammable in the night.
Like the trees, I am moon-washed
         (in fact, I am moon-dusted)
and like the trees, I shiver beneath the cool gaze of the stars.
But you.

You are fire in the night.

You are fire in the night, and I
I

                I

                         combust

               as you approach.

When you look into the mirror, do you not see the newborn stars behind your eyes?
Do you not feel the weight of your own ancient gaze?
My, oh, my.
When I kiss you, I taste pine. I taste forests I have never seen, I taste water so cold that my teeth ache.
The forest floor fills my lungs with sweet, safe decay.
Sweet and safe. In your arms, I am safe.
I am a shipwreck and you are the ocean floor. You are vast and it is here, among your shifting sands, that I rest, that I find peace.
You smell of the happy parts of my childhood.
“Honey, I'm home.”
“Baby girl.”
“You are a gift.”
You are a gift.
I'm sorry that I'm crying again. I'm sorry that I don't know when I will stop.
Am I tangible at night? I hope to never become a cloud in front of you. I hope to never float away.
I know that I will stay.
You are a gift.
When I kiss you, I am swimming. The water is cool, the water is clear, the water is deep.
I do not fear that I might drown.
Your hands could mend mountains.
Your hands.
Strong, but so careful, so kind.
Your hands could salvage seas.
Your hands.
You glow with the misty light of dreams.
You radiate light.
You radiate light.
You radiate light.
It pours from your eyes.
From your heart.
Do you not see the stardust that falls from your skin?
A walking nebula.
And I am your newborn star.
Your shipwreck.
Your river.
I am yours, simply and truly.
Glass people dance in the deserts.
Warmth fills the air around them.
I think of these glass people when I miss you.
I think of their freedom.
I think of your eyes.
The newborn stars.
You. A walking nebula, and you don't even know it. You don't even know it.
I look for you all the time. It's silly, and irrational. But I do.
I look for you everywhere.
When I kiss you, I taste molten rock. I taste heat and debris and controlled chaos. Beautiful restraint.
I taste time in the form of an hourglass. Sand.
But not clocks. Never clocks.
You are a gift.
I look for you everywhere.
Your hands.
Your hands are cellists, my heart is your cello.
A walking nebula, and you don't even know it.
You don't even know it.

Were you silent the day he left?
He'll crush you, but at least you'll feel something...
                  at least you'll feel something...
I've come to the conclusion that nobody's actually in control anyway.
We all want to be, but none of us are.
And if you think about it,
The comparison of people to mirrors and windows,
Well...
We aren't either.
We are opaque and non-reflective,
And what you see from the outside
Rarely scratches the surface of what's inside.
And I saw the moon in shades of red tonight,
And stupidly mistook the color as blushing.
But then the realization struck that it was fury;
The moon was furious with the sun
For his constant indecision,
For his periodical love for her,
For the ease with which he would change his mind...
The thunderstorms are continual these days,
And I know it's cliché,
But it really does rain all the time.
The rolling sighs of the water against the windowpanes inside my mind
Have become a habitual dance
With footwork as intricate as any fire and ice rose,
Any tango or waltz,
And nothing has really felt like this before,
               but at least I feel something...
At least you'll feel something...
I just want to feel alive again.
Make me feel alive.
Can you even hear my screams?
I know six feet under is too deep to ask,
But could you try to listen?
Can you hear the divorce that didn't happen because of us kids?
Can you hear the bitter resentment in every exchange?
Can you hear your fingers combing through my hair in my dreams? Your lips on my forehead? Your heartbeat underneath my hand?
Can you hear the anger he spits at us everyday?
“I didn't want you two to grow up in a broken home.”
But we have. Just not in the traditional sense.
Can you hear the sound of ***** pouring over ice?
Can you hear the television so loud I have to close my door to think?
Can you hear the mascara stains on every pillow in the house?
Can you hear the distance between each member of this "happy family"?
Can you hear the regret?
Can you hear the bitterness?
Can you hear the frustration?
Can you hear the solitude?
Can you hear it?
Of course not.
I've learned by now that no one hears a silent goodbye.

it
       can always
   hurt
               worse.


never think,
     not for a second,
that it's as bad as it can be.

Sweet angel, rest in peace.
…

The dragonflies do sing,
And their song won't fall asleep
And I have found in my collecting
That rest's no thing I keep.
To waltz beneath the moonlight
Through the cool of ancient mist,
Awareness is that for which you must fight,
With eyes and throat like iron fists.

Stay awake with me, I always yearn,
But I know that you must sleep
And day by day I continue to learn
Not all is mine to keep.

I can see the depth behind your eyes,
But you won't let me in.
My pleas reflect the ocean's sighs-
Rolling in again and again.
The tide won't wash away the stars
In our quiet desert nights
And kept in cracked and glowing jars
Are the steepest of our heights.

Broken hands stopped my knocking not long ago
But still, I wait outside for you
And I hope that one day you will know
You can find me always standing next to you.

She took a little of me with her when she went
She took a little bit of December
She held enough me so I will never forget
This night I will always remember.
She was a special kind of wish
The kind that you never write down
And if nothing else, she'll be the one thing
That ties me to that town.
Her tread was velvet underground
Her eyes were paper flowers
Her soul was of lace and of the sound
I sing, the sound that was ours.
She was full of love and heart, you see
And fearless to a fault
And it was these two horribly beautiful things
That caused her beating heart to halt.
I watch for her now when the lightning strikes,
And sometimes I do see
Occasionally once, far less often twice
My fearless, dancing memory,
My bright-eyed, searching memory,
My gypsy, wild and free.

Sweet, sweet breeze, oh sing me to sleep-
The sun and the dust and the quiet we keep.
The secretive, beautiful, hot July Moon,
A forbidden, lonely, and quiet, dark room.
The place in the light, a village of sorts
A song and a fight, and pillow house forts
A dress and wind and a rain and the trees-
A wheel and a road and a sky and a please-
A fear and a love and a joy, oh, how free
To know that this time and this place is not me.

I walk alone
And, worn, I think,
“I hope my eyes look alive.”
I feel I've grown,
I fear I'll sink,
Before I even arrive.
I realize, as I look around,
There is somebody home.
There is a glow in each new eye
I meet walking alone.
Red-hot realization burns
Hotter than white metal
It's a strange thing to have to learn
To watch these hearts and settle.
Remember, remember
December, December
Forever will I chant?
My heart sings, “Yes!”
My eyes confess
The truth behind my rant.

But I was awake then,

wasn't I?

you see, you don't think I remember.
But I do.

there was sunlight-

the kind of sunlight
that filters through
inescapable particles of dust, no matter
how much
I hate
to be able to see myself breathing them in.
the kind of sunlight
that absolutely glares
up off of the oil
on the asphalt
in the evenings
and blinds you hysterically.
the kind of sunlight
that swiftly stills
your rattling skeleton
and begs you to stare
"But mother, only for a minute..."
the kind of sunlight
that makes me remember
my own unanswerable questions
about my subtle deterioration
my inevitable decline
into this utter chaos
that is myself.

and through this degradation, this decomposition, I realize
that I can't help but wonder:

when did these superfluous trees take root?

where were you when the first seed of doubt landed on the surface of my parched, withering mind?

and, my God, why on Earth did you let it rain?