California stones turned up

to reveal the night-growing moss beneath—

Not much left to say

when we’re on top of Nebraska

and looking out,

into the passing sunrise.

But the way your sleepy, pillow-wrinkled cheeks reflect

the thoughts with which you have wrestled

speaks more than I know

we’re both too afraid to say.

-

So I will simply take this journey for what it is,

in attempts to not keep myself up at night

or to learn how to discover the beauty

in a moment unexplained.

I want you to know

with total assurance

that I am okay

and that this is sufficient for me

in this moment.

-

I also find myself

wanting to know that

you, dear long lost friend,

are also well,

and that the memories that swing from your rear-view mirror

will always bring you nothing but joy

and not an ounce of sorrow or regret

There lies a small red planter

within the hollows of my chest:

Though it forbids all weeds to wander,

it still festers, nonetheless.

For the dirt inside my lungs

once froze in seasons past,

and the sun had not burned bright enough,

transforming beauty to barren casts.

But on this night I feel a stir—

not a bang, but yet, a whimper—

your hands held earth and held it close,

and buds bloom within the planter.

-

And as I listen to your breathing

whilst you tend the grove once more,

your soul sobs raindrops across my chest

and my heartstring roots are torn.

but my still, heavily-beating heart

just longs for a little more—

unsatisfied

with what is graciously given.

and yet-

appeased by things all too simple

not to enjoy.

where my cravings lie,

my assuagement lie elsewhere—

in Your word &

in Your people.

so as I sit & wait for the

signal Lights to beckon,

a sojourner among its radiance,

I will instead turn to meet the Bridegroom

who tarries for me

at the other end of the ocean.

(literally. don’t worry, I didn’t crash into anyone!)
———————————————————————-

driving away from the sunset—

the smell of fresh-cut rain—

knowing You are holy

& I am so naive.

—-

poetry glued to my steering wheel—

luminance pushing me forward

when I never want to go back;

& i am so restless.

—-

smudged imperfection stings my eyes—

exhausted by who I once was—

breathless shouts to the hills,

& I am so alive.

The heart can only wait so long before it becomes

a mere shell of veins & arteries;

after the blood has begun to pool

and the sighs have become too much to hold—

it becomes just like any other *****;

a necessity,

but without the mirage of wonder—

a gift,

but without the illusion of possibility.

—-

and i assure you that this heart

weighs heavily

with the burdens you have not asked it to hold,

but that it still wished to alleviate.

—-

So as my fingers begin to blue

and the circulation comes to a close,

I wait Six more days

for your whisper of life.

I lick the ice from my skin;

for it has remained there

since the moment you left,

and I know I must defrost my

indifference and ambivalence

before you return to my arms.

-

a cold, hard shell

encapsulates my heart

(which once throbbed with

love unquenchable)

and icily creeps steadily

up the walls

& down the corridors

only to stop

& melt

at the site of

my own

selfish,                       steaming,

lamenting,                  seeping,

cave of a dwelling.

-

*Yet still I wait

at the door,

to see who

will arrive with the pick.