So many beautiful moments to enjoy
To fill you up and allow you to feel
Would it be wrong to try
And find meaning in them?

My words are free and instant magic
Watch them fall across the air and swim away
Carried on the currents of wind and passing time
Spare me the tragic belittling truth today
I am watching words fly

A million tasks stacked in lined paper
A holy trinity marks the margins
Mother wants to know where I am at
I say
Not yet please
Not yet

Can't sleep so I
Check my Facebook,
See the little Capitol Building icon
In the news feed box
And I press it with my finger.

Nothing happens.
No loading bar,
No
Nothing.

And for a wild second I think,
"Even Facebook has given up on trying to
Make sense of American politics."

And then it loads.

Every yea for the nay
Keeps everything in balance

I spend my big wishes on everlasting abundance
But keep my earnest ones saved for love
Not romantic but sturdy as houses
Love

What speaks to you?
The tongue varies - but tastes,
Tastes, my dear,
They change slowly.

Is it the touch of warm skin?
The sashay of cascading hair
and the pleasant popping
Of undone buttons?
Mortal desires
Have mortal consequences,
My dear.

Is it assurance in your wealth?
Do you long to never worry
About the poverty that oppresses?
You can have much but never
Have it all,
My dear.

Would that these words
Could speak to you
And cause a shift
Deep within your soul
If such a thing exists,
My dear.

But my tongue is twisted.
So it goes,
My dear.

You will lay yourself into me like so much brickwork,
building and sealing each hard-fired thought and feeling,
stapling old wounds shut with smiles and glittering eyes,
your lips stealing into mine, welcome thieves.
I would like to resist you,
to turn my shoulder and laugh; not cruelly,
but with self-assurance that this is all just play.
But when you place your hand against my face and pull me close,
and I feel the warmth of you against the warmth of me,
the truth of it all spills across my soul,
leaving bright stains of gold that shimmer in the new day's dawn.
Yes, all things new. Yes, all things old.
Yes, all things you and I.

You told me that your name was wrong;
Who am I to disagree?
I know the sound and feel of it,
and it fails to capture you.
That's not surprising though,
I feel the same about my own.
When we're given titles at birth,
it's only inevitable that we outgrow them.