Tell me
you know
your blood runs
red and red
just like mine,
you don’t have
enough gold
in your stardust
to convince me
of anything
otherwise.
But the sky:
it might blind me.
It’s still grey,
blue and blue.
You must know
the color of
your own eyes
by now.

My mother decided
that I was thunder,
rumbling from a place
hidden in dark clouds
and booming, echoing
unseen across the sky
with my heavy nature.
She told me to find rain,
a soft caress
for my weathered skin
to mute my intensity.
To dance with a light
shower against the
setting August sun.
Instead, you are lightning.
Sharp and dangerous,
you are wild strength.
Crackling with an energy
that summons me,
brightens the sky
and lights trees on fire.
We should have been
a storm. Breathtaking.
Thunder and lightning
who bring the rain
when they clash in awe,
but neither of us
wanted to be soft.
But we did bring wind.
It whipped past our ears
with anger we held
closer than each other.
Giving nothing time
to settle before we blew it
away like scattered leaves.
We created masterpieces
in the heavens, my angels
answer to your raw power.
But I always follow,
trailing behind farther
each time you flash hot.
The rain never came.


**V. K.

It’s like
the only a i r
left on earth
is what’s trapped
                      in
                     my
                   lungs,
but I am needing
more than oxygen
to survive.


**V. K.

In a broken shower,
where the cold tap
doesn’t work
and water sprays faster
than it drains,
when you close your eyes
to wash your face
it feels like wading into
Hell’s ocean.
Imagine it.
You don’t know if it’s
scarier to pretend
the water is perfectly clear
or layered in murky darkness.
Do you want to see?
Soap burns your eyes
when you panic
and open them
before any decision can be
cemented,
like your feet to that
nightmare world.


**V.K.

Out there is the sight of rain in the distance.
That particular shade of grey
falls smooth as a new pen on a bleached page,
which makes the softest and loudest noise,
drawing out words. You're drawing me
away from my thesaurus, my dictionary,
and my scattered pages.
Maybe I need to concentrate on something
more than my vocabulary.
My stiff wool sweater and the kiss
of your thighs, shivering in stale air just
waiting for the chance to wake up to
the soft patter of rain against our windows.
Lethargic, the muted lighting makes us softer
than we are, you are flickering between rain
sheet grey and a new pale blue and watching me
fall away from any definitions, synonyms
and the ink stains on my fingers.
Maybe I just need to focus on the smudge I leave
on your cheek, marking the sharp junction
of your smile and eyelashes.
Here, heavy rain still can't dim your eyes.
Blue. Grey. Blue. No pen is that bright.
If I could leave you here, because I know I can't,
I wouldn't write anything except your name
until my writing scrawls across the page and
ends up covering my walls in all capitals.
I have the image in my head, rain clean,
but I haven't uttered a word because
I don't know if the descriptions are enough
to gift such a patient goddess with,
so trust in the dark that my silence is
the heaviest and lightest sound of my heart.
You bring the rain on Tuesday
and then invite me to dance, there are no other words
for this.


**V. K.

You are a familiar
downtown intersection,
even though I'm
from the suburbs.
You are streetlights
that don't flash yellow
at 9:00pm, busy
don't stop but
go slowly. Careful.
You are construction,
hazard lights,
hiding caution signs
in bedrooms
and you are painted
in warning orange,
red lights and green,
stop and go cars
lining the way.
You are brunch time
traffic and stale car air,
loud music on the radio.
You are being late
for our reservation and
not knowing what to order.
You are mimosas
and caesers and sangrias
before noon,
spice in my mouth and
burning my throat.
You are unorganized,
not knowing
formal table settings.
You are hungry, you are
full of Spanish breakfast.
You are unsure about
where we should go,
where will we end up?
You are a lazy midday walk,
the cloudless sky.
You are skipping rocks
under bridges and finding
perfect pebbles.
You are inappropriate
footwear for the task,
my blue dress by the river.
You are slick shore rocks,
tears or waterfalls or sweat,
slipping into danger.
You are sirens, my wailing
drowns by the water.
You are flashing lights,
here and gone and here and -
You are what I think about
in waiting rooms,
off white florescent lighting
and white tile ceilings
and business black chairs
and a heavy ticking clock.
You are the dead space in my life.
You are the dead space.
You are the dead.
You are.


**V. K.

You are the cracking bones
beneath my stretching ankles
reflected in the mirror.
You are the dry eyes at 1:08 AM
blurring old contacts,
unfocused on laptop glare.
You are the approach
of a passing car outside the window,
and the fading headlights bright.
You are the static in my pillow ear
as I contemplate why you are
in my head and on my skin, and yet,
you are not.


**V. K.