I opened the cage
of my ribs for you,
To reveal my softly beating
heart and all that lay
within it.

But you? No.

Your heart is still encased
in that cage of yours.
I can hear it,
each beat reverberating
in your chest.
Yet, I cannot see it.

Maybe you're just shy,
Or
Maybe I just don't hold
the key to the cage
around your heart.

For the past nine or so years,
he weaves a blanket. Night after night,
he incorporates thread after thread
of caresses and warm words. For the
blanket's purpose is to dispel all
forms of darkness, real and imagined,
to combat the mosters under the bed
and inside one's head, to imitate
a canopy of stars.

Night after night, he hands me the
unfinished blanket. It is soft and
warm. And though I still sleep with
the light on, the blanket is enough
to remind me that the ticking of the
clock is sometimes similar to the
beating of two hearts.

the sad truth of it all
is that if your cover
is not pretty
no one will want to
read your contents

Do not fall in love with Astrophysicists
We will tell you that
Your eyes glimmer like the stars
you have galaxies swimming in your veins
That your words sound like the spinning of a world around a sun
That the planet recently discovered dwarfs
In comparison to you
And that you are our universe
And when we are gone
You will never be able
To look up
Ever again

The most meaningful flower
      I ever received was from
   a blind homeless fella who said
             it matched my essence

I

This is for you.
This is for me.
This is for the present and for the future I might have seen and for the future that might be and for the future that will be.

This is for you.
This is for me.
This is for the us that might be and for the us that will be and for the us that might never be.

This is for you.
This is for me.
This is a promise.
This is a dream.

This is a memory
Remembered five years too early,
Seen seven years too soon.

This is for me,
For the hearts I guard and for the promises I claim and for the faith that will not waver.
For the days I remember and the days I don’t remember and the days I hate to remember.
For the nights I’m up and wondering and the nights I’m up and screaming and the nights I’m out and dreaming.
For the times I lose my focus and the times I lose my strength and the times I lose my center.

If this is for you,
and one day we might be and will be,
and one day you might be and will be
standing here with me,
please wait with me.

It might be and will be and might never be.
So please wait with me.

Still I will hold on to the One I know who was
and is and will be and will forever be.
This is for me.

II

This is a story
pursued five years too early,
forced seven years too soon.

This is written
with divine hands and not mine,
without the constraints of my human mind.

This is His dream,
not a dead scientist's
ramblings on what it is and what will be and what might be and what might never be.
We are but madmen,
ranting and raving and crying
and losing our voices to the wind.

This is His story,
not yours, not mine.
This is His call,
not yours, not mine.

Should we end up on the same page,
molded with the same ink,
and finally be,
then we will think of the title together:
             a phrase,
             a word,
             in essence:
                   He was and is and will be.

 But we are on different books,
 led to different lines,
 caught up in our own whirlwinds of words.

The rest remains unwritten.

And so I wait.

You sit behind a glorious loom
Weaving and tugging the threads
Not of silk or cloth
But of the fabric of reality
You manipulate them
Steadily weaving my dreams
Into a blanket of memories
To keep us warm at night
As you are plucking the strings
Not of guitar or harp
But those of my heart
Strumming a tune known to all
That sweet melody
That sacred hymn
The song within.