I'll take up smoking
     because it will bring warmth to my lungs, worn from lamenting,
& I'll learn to play the acoustic guitar,
     because the songs of its strings resonate reminiscently with the sound of your voice.
I'll lose sleep in waiting
     for your greetings & goodbyes,
& I'll find strength in old messages
     (old memories)
     you once felt desire to send.
[one day I'll learn, & I'll secure myself in place.]
---
you'll grow tall in your heart,
     because you do not yet know the love of which you are capable,
& you'll lose hope sometimes,
     because there are still so many mistakes to be made.
you'll eat late in the evenings,
     because you've got so many better things to do,
& you'll eventually forget that these years,
     (these moments,)
     don't last forever.
[one day, you'll learn, & you'll fly.]
---
& we, like the tide,
     will rise & fall.
we'll say hello on occasion,
     but never goodbye.
we'll find vices to fill our gaps,
     (because the summer is over, my love)
     & the sun is setting on our time.
& some day, we'll learn, & we'll migrate in bittersweet peace.

How long has it been--
Since I chased the thieves of all my sense;
Since I chose heartstrings over frontal lobe waves,
Hungers of the heart over milk and bread?

And at what time will I awaken
To a sun-drenched dream or a subtle rainstorm
Rather than nightmares or responsibilities?
---
Instead, I sleep in dishwater dreams,
Lukewarm and foggy,
And wake to thoughts of a queue,
A restlessness reserved almost exclusively for
A train station,
Where one waits, waits...
---
And which one comes for me?
And when it arrives,
Will I choose the fate prescribed on my ticket,
Or will I avenge all of the decisions
I chose not to make in past encounters with strangers,
Standing in queue, as well,
All waiting for the same hum and crash
In their final Destinations?

I ask all of these things, of course,
As I hand one of these strangers my ticket,
I step on board the cable car compass,
Riding into the flaming abyss.

please—
don’t worry;
about the feelings you cannot quite muster
or the actions you cannot quite accomplish—
for simply having you here
would suffice.

[for it is not always the ocean
or the waves themselves that bring peace,
indeed—
sometimes, simply a scent of sea air
can be enough
to put one at ease.]

and do not ask
why I wait at the window,
on this blustery winter night,
candles flickering in the den,
flames snapping in the fireplace,
pots sizzling on the stove—

instead,
inquire as to how long I will wait
until you sweep in with snow sleeping on your eyelashes,
the zephyr of the west still singing in your ears,
an exhausted smile of bruised hope dancing with your dimpled cheeks—
for yes,
oh yes,
I am still here,
waiting.

please, do not worry,
for the night is young,
the stove will keep warm,
and if I sleep, I will wake at the door—
for I will greet you with blankets wrapped around my shoulders
in which to bring you warmth,
and my toes will stretch to allow me to hold you closer,
but my words will truly bring you in from the cold:
have peace, for all is well, my love.
all is well with our souls.

[and the snowflakes will melt into tears of joy.]

it is autumn,
& a village is planning for
the Reaping:

                                        [the rustling of the wind as it whips through the leaves
                                        on a foggy, weaving, narrow street
                                        the faint hum of a chorus singing tunes of change,
                                        & a whisper of mischief amidst the trees & the rain.]

in a nearby village, women stand out on their porches,
waiting for news of the weather & harvest
while beasts curl & snap from the fire that warms
men with hands bloodied from the day’s hunted.

but when supper tables are barren & apron strings lengthen
on the women who pour over & onto their families,
men will tell fables & children sing carols
so the hunger pains & hopeless tears will cease.

so while some offer prayers to the God who giveth
& others grow cold in their anguish,
some witches gather in secret among cedars & birches
in attempt to tempt fate with their voices.

they sing:
seven handfuls of crunched leaves &
     seven nights of lucid dreams—
five pumpkin faces to carve grins into &
     five conversations to break hearts in two—
three dances around the fireside &
     three a.m. cold sweats in which to writhe—
one harvest moon to stand beneath &
     one soul for whom I ever weep.
                                      & while the weak are consumed with the thoughts in their heads,
                                      we clamor for life, chanting spells of the dead.

so when the blacksmith’s daughter hears a song from the woods,
raven hair aloft in the breeze,
she asks but one question: to whom shall I go?
& her boots beat a path toward the trees.

please
I’ll ask you with kindness one last time:
do not
absolutely, do not
(oh, brown eyes, brown eyes…)
break.

your bones are splintering,
the fibers that knit together your identity
are becoming unwoven
it seems—

& I don’t ask this easily,
nor without understanding
your lingering pain:
for the same ocean you drown in,
I’ve come to know
& the same bridges you’ve jumped from,
I’ve stood upon, aloft—

& with the wind&waves; I bend,
yes, I, too, bend--
with our evenings awash in escapism
& our midnights amiss with noise
[& our daylight alive with passioned kisses
never meant to ever say good night]--

yes we bend, dear friend,
but we absolutely cannot break.

dear love of mine,
we are two branches that ache on the same rotten, fallen tree,
two butterflies with gold-plated wings that labor to sing,
two corpses encased before their time,
two veins that race with the same
bloodlust for living

[but also for dying,
for that is our flaw,
& we do it exceedingly well].

for what I give to you is peace,
& what you give to me is inspiration—
two things that fight to exist
in a world that throws them out with
itswars&itslost;&itspoets.;

so in fact it is not love
we share in our greetings,
but rather the
enabling of
narcissism,
masochism,
& the misery to which
we harbor&cling;.