I miss the cold air penetrating my lungs,
Bringing me to life.
For once feeling cut off-
Independent
Completely free.
Its empowering
Entrancing
Intoxicating
Poisonous.
That feeling of freedom
"Just one last cigarette."
Repeated a thousand times
in dreams, on long highways,
at the corner buried in snow at midnight.
One last sin
Again
And again

I noticed

  Today, in class, I noticed you.
I noticed that at just the
right time of day,
when the weather is perfect
and the sun shines through the windows,
my shadow appears
on the back of your shirt.
And, in the strangest of  ways, it was one of the most
beautiful things
I have ever seen.
And then, in the next instant,
I became sad when I noticed that
you,
my friend,
will never know the
beauty
of my shadow
because it will always be at your back.
. It will always be in your blind spot.

And what a shame that is.

there are paths

that we know

with our familiarity

we set off surefooted

toward our known destination

then as dusk settles in

we begin to doubt

to wonder

the markers and signposts

appear to have shifted

perhaps tampered with

and our assurance dwindles

replaced by confusion

unsettling in the fog

questions arise to which we believed

we already had the answers

and what was known becomes lost

along with

our selves

I thought I would run out of words
when soft beams of light peaked past the horizon,
like the letters would sink down with the moon.
Because for years I’ve made the stars my ink
and the night sky my canvas.
I guess the sunlight just feels strange
when you’ve spent so much time in darkness.
But now it warms my frosted fingers,
pulsing liquid lava through my veins.
Sleepless nights becoming tired mornings.
But they are new.
And so am I.
I can write about hope,
even if I have so little left.
I can write about truth,
even though I lie right through my teeth.
I can write about peace,
even though I see none of it in me.
And I can write about love,
even though I haven’t the faintest clue
of what it could be.

Going through the motions of making love
making nothing and feeling undone
Sitting hunched over at the edge of his bed
I'd never admit it but sometimes,
I'd like to be held instead
I've never known the feeling
Of that little spoon
The one that sits in the grooves
Of the other larger half moon
He brings my train of thought to an ugly end
He mutters, " get off the bed, its time to get dressed. "
I leave the room thinking about half moons
And how sometimes even little spoons get used