We never spoke words,
we only compiled songs.

We understood every connotation
behind every tune.

The way I look at it,
a mixed tape is a poem.
Each song is a stanza,
every note is a feeling,
and every emotion
is in perfect likeness with the one who sent it.

My sun and stars,
You flavor my life with light,
And guide me in the way of goodness
Just as the heavens direct sailors
Across the sea to safety at night.

I wonder, am I the moon of your life?
Fading always to the west,
I crave your eastern light.

Darkness threatens to swallow us.
Our lips meet,
One last eclipse.
And the weary men on the ships below
Shield their faces with calloused hands
And sigh, finally able to see
Into this bright abyss.

Strike the match
for a brighter moment.

The candle glitters through the air thick with
darkness and thoughts and sounds
echoing from the unknown around us.
Power has escaped into the somewhere else
beyond this Nebraska farm house.

Sealed inside, only the whisper of light.
We must wait
in scant illumination of reality and nonreality.
No view in front of us
or behind.

All we can do is hold our gazes to this
flame
between us:
flickering
each moment
we breathe
together
fragile
trying to beat back the darkness.

And you know what?
I bet it can,
I hope it can,

as the wax coats the fingers of
our clasped hands,
and hardens them
together
in a moment.

Let us keep our fondest memories
clutched close to our chests.

For if they are lost,
the wind will sweep them away
or the sea will toss them into its abysmal blue.

Rather, let us tie them to the laces of our shoes -
              and take them always with us.
Tattoo them onto our intellects -
              and reminisce upon them often.
Lock them in our hearts
              Do not let them die until they
              all
              stop
              beating.

Whatever it may be--let's face it,
while these rain drops collect like moments
in the valleys of our lives, and rush
away from out-stretched hands
to water the fertile ground of youth.

We must face it.
This rain both lengthens
and diminishes life,
until everything has grown
up around us, old and green.

I miss when we called it ‘new.’
The watery seconds pool up at our feet,
sinking into mud as thick as memories,
so far from our lowered gaze.
We watch these droplets of time-puddles,

Together, afraid to draw ourselves tall,
to be as we were made to be,
and to face each other and the heavy clouds

of everything that is
and never will be

once this rain drifts on
without us.

There is definitely glass in the hammer
and my hands are cut and bleeding.
But we needed to drive down that road,
hide behind the earth,
and commit ******.

John and Paul and George and Ringo
are dead.
And we threw their bodies in the dumpster
and drove away.

If only there was more **** to break.
We need more **** to break.

We were so close to seeing the sunrise!
Well, not really.
It was 3 o' clock
and my eyelids felt like cinder blocks.

But it felt close.

It could have been a picture perfect moment.
Well, not really.
Pictures are never perfect,
and besides,
my thumb would have been in the shot.

We are a forest; we are as dense as trees. But when one of us is cut down and plummets, none of us hear it. It's sad that our branches don't intertwine and our leaves don't share the same green and fall off our twigs when Autumn appears around the corner with its scythe, welcoming the coming of Dead Winter.

We are only a tire swing away from each other.

Our bark isn't climbed by the same children. We don't have the same tattoos, formed by the knives of lovers holding hands, in our wood. It would be better for us to burn down in a quiet Summer Holocaust.

The only way to join each other is to return to the dirt that gave birth to us.