She spends countless of hours teaching herself to forgive, but she cant because she's unable to forget.

I always have been the second glance, but never the intense stare.

When someone lays their head on your chest, wraps their arms around you, and closes their eyes, you remember everything you learned about vulnerability and intimacy.
You hold them like a child and play with their hair, feel your breathing patterns sync, and discover that you can open up again.
You close your eyes too.

Menthol Madness creeps into my head.  
Tattooed Touch fills my mind.

I am not ready for this day to end. I never am - a lover of the night, I blur the lines between sunrise and sunset frequently. I lie on my back and think of skin, smoke, sense. My senses feel deprived. I need stimulation, stimulants....something. No one is awake. I am restless, unable to sleep.

What keeps me awake all of these nights? What occupies my mind during these hours? What keeps me up at night?

Her eyes are a metaphor,
   a conceit, fantasy

No shakespearean sonnet
   even a lyric, will suffice
   to describe the elegance she carries

Her smile, the greatest curve,
   all simile will be denied

Haikus and couplets
   even the long ones
   will not be enough

Her laughter is a song,
   a perfect harmony and melody

She is neither a hyperbole
   nor full of irony
   instead she is perfect rhyme

She is a walking poetry
   a personification of aesthetics

Almost an abstract
   unfathomable beauty
   out of the ordinary

In a midnight
whispered by spring,
I lingered to hear
the symphony
of wild roses
beyond the
wayward pines.
But now
I paint them
in marine colours
to send them
to drift among
the reckless waves,
seducing the young sailors...

A door
of trust
there may
open this
floodgate as
more orientals
come to
America again
in hopes
that their
meeting now
succumb as
such their
people live
well here
and want
eqaul pay.