i've been
reading poetry
ee cummings and--
sylvia plath
pretty pools of words filled with color

--and ducks

charles bukowski is a
***** old man
lots of ***** old
words
and images
but real dirt, not pretend
real's so hard to find
these days

they talk about love like it's
broken--painful--deadly--
always wonderfully beautiful
(like the beautiful snake whose
poison's killing you)

that's not
love

because it's falling asleep with warm breath on the back of your neck and your bed a little too small
because it's laughing so hard that you almost snort macaroni and cheese out your nose
because it's doing laundry and pausing just to notice how your clothes smell like her
because it's waiting alone, imagining how big you'll smile when she comes back - it's always bigger than you think.
because it's knowing that the pain's not part of love, it's part of being human

they don't know
nearly as much as they
think--
they do

i love--
baseball in the park when it's not too hot
(I play shortstop)
chocolate ice cream cones in the hot sun
(dripping down my hand)
flying kites in autumn winds
(the falling leaves make the difference)
sledding through the snow
(and crashing into snowbanks)

i love--
coca-cola
(in the glass bottles)
root beer
(with vanilla ice cream)
7-up
(it's better than sprite)
mountain dew
(caffeine!)

i love--
you
(and the soapy smell after you shower)
you
(making me laugh more)
you
(how much you care about people)
you
(and you let me, too)

that's my proof they
don't know
(what
they're talking about
that is)
so--
i think poetry
is overrated

Like the autumn frost, regret
creeps through
killing hope like leaves on a tree
nature's tears falling
one
by
one
leaving me bare,
naked in the face of the winter's chill
the blinding snow and biting wind

I let the frost come of my own accord
twining around my heart
my mind
I let myself believe in lies
and so my hope was snuffed out
killed to rise only in a spring
that may never come.

you came back like magic
the salt spray hitting Lucy’s face
from the frame on her bedroom wall
you stepped out of a memory and nothing had changed
your voice still honey sweet to me
your smile still sonnets and songs
thinking of you makes me feel the City in my veins again
rushing and crashing and bustling
my laugh rising above it all

you came back like magic
hiding dragons in your pockets
whispering arthurian myths in my ears as I fall asleep
finding me through the ages that separate us
even though they never passed
you are still family enough (to me)
to brush my hair out at the end of the day
once i’ve put the world away and taken off my armor

hidden melodies spill from my lips when you’re there
drawn like poison from a wound
like honey from a comb
songs i never think to sing around anyone else
singing while i wait for you
part of me still sitting in the park
where i waited once before

once, it was love
(it will always be love)