I remembered
I promised you a poem,
In fact one a day for our love-
There's a problem though,
I can't seem to get them out:

   Because your presence
   Is like a million words,
   A thesaurus sitting right
   Next to me,
   And what you are to me
   When you are with me is an
   Eternal sonnet.
   But when I tried I began to
   Understand something that brings
   My understanding of us clearer,
   That we are the same in separate
   Places, in the same solitude
   Without knowing each other's
   Pain or fatigue.
   That we are both not people,
   But the wind freed in our selves,
   A gale freed from the conventional
   And we become a sudden verse,
   Nostalgic and naive,
   Stubbornly young and hopeful,
   There in that place,
   When we are together,
   I cannot write the poem
   That has not yet finished
   Being written.

A finger *****; a dilation.
The cracked rib on your life side.
I long to paint pictures of the subconscious;
the places we never get to see.
And as the sun starts to set,
as night eclipses over the earth
I will scream until my throat is bleeding.
I will drag my body across the pavement,
punch my fists into walls
leaving the stain of humanity on every street corner.
I will cut across the plain of existence with my fingertips and
I will pull reality from its womb.
I will drag it on the ground behind me
until it is bloodied and worn -
I'll scream in it s face and ask,
Why?
I want existence to feel everything I have felt;
Ten times over, amplified and without mercy.