The woods were all shafts
of late afternoon light,
slipshodding through canopies and across singing marshes
of toads and crickets,
dripping as warm honey drips,
Collecting in angular golden pools,
Much like how delicate gold chains might fold over and into themselves in order to
Reflect,
We reflected that the day was nearly done,
And we held hands as we walked back home,
And you told me things that made my heart expand,
And now you are gone
And it rests
With an ache that is wholly
Unfamiliar.
I'm just a pile of thin chain, made brass by neglect.
No,
I haven't stopped thinking about you
Yet.

I think I have a strange heart,
One that warbles in my chest,
Like a fat red cardinal trembling
As it decides to turn back around
On a thin twig of a tree branch,
Whose leaves jitter and shake in time
With long red feathers on wings.

I think my heart is strange,
But it seems to know you very well.
What will come of this, you think?
Only time can tell.

Asexuality?
Nah,
I am the Bartleby
Of ***.

Relax past participle in order to
Accelerate mass particles
And innervate long dead articles
Of thought once thought tried and untrue.

"T-t-tuh-truthfully," he stammered,
"I cannot tell the d-d-difference."

Inside a recently abandoned coal mine,
His voice scattered down endless tunnels.

He lit a match and held it up before him,
But it immediately burned out.

"Are you an idiot or something?"
His companion shuffled beside him.

There was small, plastic-sounding click
And then they were both bathed in light.

"You can't light matches down here, ***.
You'll blow us to Kingdom Come."

"S-s-s-" but his companion cut him off. "Sorry
don't put the skin back on your bones."

"Now look again, Matine." His companion
Urged him closer to the small wooden table.

Matine looked at the two, ancient sea shells,
Anxiety filling up his stomach like acid soup.

Several tense seconds passed as he brought
Each one up to his face and studied it.

"T-t-tuh-truthfully," he stammered,
"I cannot tell the d-d-difference."

Inside a recently abandoned coal mine,
His voice scattered down endless tunnels.

Matine's companion was not a patient man.
His name was Jack. And he left the mine.

Matine did not.

My nights become endless days
When you are absent from the waking moments of my morning,
My afternoon,
My evening.
They stumble on themselves in waiting for your visage,
Ambling evermore until your touch,
Your voice,
Your stories are here with me,
Travelling light as hydrogen in my heart,
Warm as summer waters against my skin,
Strange bright thing in the field of endless color and variation,
I don't know if I love you
But I know I am enchanted,

It is my dear desire to see you,
Not just once more,
But always.

Provide me with the magic mirror
So that I may finally sleep sound,
With the crackling warmth of your dry laughter still churning in my ears.