Do you remember when the universe told you my fingers were magic?*

I do.
I thought it funny of Him,

To do it in such a small way.
In a way so silly,
No one would remember,
My secret,

The universe had spilled.

I, sometimes, think of,
All of the people,
Who could answer,
"Is there life after death?"

I get jealous, because,
There, once, were some,
Who - now -
Have such an answer.

But, then I remember those people are dead,
And, how that may actually ****.

Are my scars saying words,
Too frankly to you?

What of my wounds,
That have yet to heal?

Is my courage too loud,
For you, Sir Proud -

Am I too brokenly real?

I've heard the moon whisper,
On several occasions -
Stories and things,
That tell what life will bring,

And what to bring to it.

At dusk, the moon laughs,
With me, in the garden-
We hold hands,
And share our secrets.

The moon tells me who,
I should cling to,
And, I, how the clinging did fare.

We kiss and run after,
The stars - though, I'm shackled to,
The earth, with too much to care,
For.

There are bumble bees around the corner,
Waiting to land on the tip of your nose.
Thick, flower nectar, dripping from above them,
Fated, to catch you in your, "Hello."

When the beaming sun beams,
We say lovely things,
And spread them about,
For those near,

To feel it within,
To take part in -

To share it with those
Who will hear.

When the sun disappears,
The moon's light rears,
Sprinkling taboo gems about,

For us to tiptoe and choose,
To place in a ruse,
Of words to enjoy during, Lights Out.

Neither a shortage of daisies,
To pluck from this field,
Nor, unwelcoming nuances met,

Only waves of inspiration,
Covered in chosen sensation,

An oasis for the itching poet.

I kissed you in your sleep last night,
And you rolled over with a smile.

Then, I poked your little nose and sighed,
And smiled back for awhile.

*05.2011