Oh no. It used to be here somewhere. I swear it, I’ve no reason to lie.
"Here" in some abstract sense, though. Not "here" like "I can pick it up with my hand."
Here in a way I could just feel it eking out a path around my neck
working its way, all at the same time, down the spine
and up across the skull
to my ear

I think, maybe, you took it with you when you left my house some weeks ago
Not to be cruel, or coy, or potent. Just because that’s the way these things work
Just, I got a little too used to it. Thought maybe it could be my own
But its yours, and it comes and goes along with you
You need it. I miss it.
Your sweet breath.

Fish swim up-river
Fight to death to birth children
Spawn. Die. Float away

A snowflake's journey
Descended from a grey cloud
Struck by foot, shattered

This tree has no life
Yet beneath it cold won't tread
Helped again by death

Honestly, I'd forgotten what it was like to be here.
Honestly, I'd love to forget again.

is what i said to you then
not “i told you so”
this was not that kind of talk
not even “i told you,” really
because that’s not true
more like, “babe i promised you”

it’s a promise you don’t want
but it comes with me
it’s the price of admission
“promise me you’ll understand?”
“of course,” you say, “yes”
i wish you’d known what that meant

i didn’t really say it
it fell from the sky
little ribbons of our thoughts
which makes it hurt a bit more
i just want to speak
but today we’re too far

if we weren’t, i’d still be weak
too gun shy for words
too eager to move too fast
not understanding what you,
of all the people,
need to feel before it’s whole

but, here it is, as promised
promised i’d obsess
promised i’d be too needy
but you, too sweet, acquiesced
and i truly fear
you'll see the rot within me

and of course rot outside too
small scabs and scars, first
before long, they start to itch
fully expected,
i scratch at one, Ruby red
and it bursts the water of life

it’s not satisfying, though
another must go
and then i pick a few more
until the chair is covered
in drops of blood, sad
to be part of such a mess

i still don’t get why it’s me
but it’s nice it is
your face is hope, in a way
if the world put us together
it’s not a bad place
which reminds me to keep on

A flashback, my body's feeble attempt at catharsis.
And I saw you there.  Where I was stuck, you were always there.
Which maybe explains why you're such a reoccurring theme,
In my thoughts, in my nightmares, I suppose you're still a part of me.

It almost seems hopeless, fighting like this to rid myself animus.
Animus for you, a seething hatred for me.  Maybe not me as a person.  Maybe just how I handled things.
Handled you.  You were a package damaged in shipping though.
All the glue in the world can't fix the priceless vase the mailman dropped on my front porch that day.

"How lucky,"  I thought to myself.  Something of value, finally, that I can hold on to.
I just have to get all the pieces back in the right place.

And so the labors of love came forth, I examined each piece and tried to reconstruct you the best I could
Tried to put the puzzle back together without looking at the box.  I thought I did a good job.
From a distance it was a thing of beauty to marvel what I had, and what had really become a part of me.
The reconstruction took up all my time, I got all my friends involved in it.

Maybe not enough. Maybe too much.
Or maybe I should have known going in
That all the glue in the world
Can't hide cracks

Cracks that begin to show once someone got close.
The cracks that, over time, as souls heat up and cool

Eventually they begin to inch and linger and mosey
The way two old people ready to die do
When they walk down the beach one last time.
Except we weren't old, and we certainly weren't ready to die.

Sometimes the nicest vase in the world
Isn't worth a big gluey mess.
You fill it with water
And it seeps through the places,

It's funny, how much this letter applies to more than just you.
I can now think of someone else who came to me like this, who I tried to piece together.


The tiniest crevices, where you would have never thought to glue it together at.

Or maybe my concept of the whole was the flaw in the plan.
One can't assemble something they've never seen
With no concept or heading, or even an idea
Of how it's supposed to work.  Perhaps I was damaged just as you.

And with my broken and numb and altogether necrotized fingers
Simply didn't have the dexterity to assemble the splinters
I wanted to sweep off the floor but couldn't due to my failing eye sight.
But what does it really matter?  What does it mean to me?

You never would admit it, but every REALLY GOOD story does have a theme
Does have a purpose. What did the protagonist learn from overcoming this conflict?

Maybe I won't know, because I haven't overcome it yet.
If I had I wouldn't be writing letters to you
In the middle of the night trying to figure out if I've learned anything yet.
Or maybe you had nothing to teach me. Or maybe I can never really learn. Tschuss.

Sunlight flits in. Not on its own, sneakily
yet bravely upright, saddling motes of dust
You open the curtains to look out on the garden

But all there is, is a grey brick wall staring back
and last time you checked, it was just the same: grey
And really, last week when you checked it was grey brick, too

It just doesn’t make any sense at all, though
why you’d face a window at such a plain thing
At some time, at some point, there had to be something there

A wooden boardwalk for bandying, lazy teens
Or a park with a bench for walked on, weary soules
It wasn’t born grey brick; out of nothing, ‘til today

And if there was something beautiful before
it might find time to come back home and visit
But who’s to say? So one more time you close the curtains

A patch, a thicket, a place I can write
On this broken ground I tread all night
A place I can hide, escape from my plight
A patch, a thicket, a place I can write

A patch, a thicket, a place I can sing
And throughout these woods, my voice will ring
O'er hill and dale, to crystal springs
A patch, a thicket, a place I can sing

A patch, a thicket, a place I can dance
And if you can come, I'm extending the chance
To partake in merriment, sure to entrance
A patch, a thicket, a place I can dance

A patch, a thicket, a place I can see
And no one can find it, no one but me
I'll take you along, to be gay and free
A patch, a thicket, a place I can see

A patch, a thicket, a place I can lie
To catch up on lost hours of shut eye
A secret it holds, the secret is mine
A patch, a thicket, the place I will die

Betwixt the plains the river runs
Through hill and forest, beneath the sun
Where fauna stop to pray for drink
And rocks appeal their will to sink

Betwixt the mounts the river runs
The scars it cuts ne'er be undone
And though men try to place a fight
The river claims them all with might

Betwixt the towns the river flows
And some may follow wherever it goes
The start of a trout, the end of a snake
Yet the river kills not, nor does it make

Betwixt the states the river flows
In places straight, where others it bows
For all of the knowledge contained within
It can retain not, how it were to begin

Betwixt the nations the river can rush
The lands that it touches can't help but be lush
Blessing the many who bask in its essence
And swallowing those who scorn its presence

Betwixt the cliffs the river will rush
Surging on to its final gush
All of the effort the river expends
Knowing too well, too soon it will end

The tallest tree stands guard in the park
He keeps out the wind with the thickest of bark
And all of the trees for miles can view
His thick curving branches holding so true

But in this park, alone is he not
For he must have company contained in his lot
And all of the trees for miles besiege
A chance to stand where he scatters his leaves

So one by one he picks his crew
An elm, an oak, a pine, and a yew
And all of the trees for miles brew spite
That they were chose not to be at his right

And slow but sure, his trees conceive
And then of their duty, they are bereaved
And all of the trees for miles make haste
To see the new saplings that are now placed

They know for sure that some can not strive
For he consumes the most sun to survive
And all of the trees for miles conspire
To rule his park when he retires

And the smallest of saps looks on in rapture
And knows at once, his park it must capture
And all of the trees for miles look on in gall
For this little sapling is the smallest of all

For years he awakens and each day he stretches
But in pain of this growth, the poor sap retches
And all of the trees for miles must grin
The sap keeps fighting, though told he can't win

The sap matures, and ends an adult
Taller than all, he begins to gloat
And all of the trees for miles are shocked
The sap beat them all, his potential unlocked

Many moons pass and all can see
The impending death of the old tallest tree
And all the the trees for miles don't know
What they will do when his wizened self goes

And when he expires, the sap is the king
And his cries of victory echo and ring
And all of the trees for miles can view
His thick curving branches holding so true

But the sap can not hear all this admiration
And endlessly strains in exasperation
And all of the trees for miles can see
He's so much worse off, being this tree

But up on his pedestal, his glory can blind
And he can't see know his particular bind
And all of the trees for miles just wait
For the last of his life to dissipate

I spent much of my time going somewhere.  Always here or there, thinking a momentary stillness was time wasted
Hours of progress lost now equates to hundreds of miles down the road.  Much akin to origami
Delicately forming in the hands of a foolish youth at the craft table
Somewhere in the heart of the "Center For Kids With Split-And/Or-Poor Families"
Also known as YMCA Day Camp

One wrong fold when you start inevitably leads to your crane looking an awful lot less like an elegant bird
And an awful lot more like a crumpled and forgotten letter.  At any rate, I have gotten hung up in recent years
With trying to determine which wrong turns I took then and more importantly where I even think I'm headed now.
I've spent too many years watching trains go by and am realizing I'm still at the station where I doubt I want to be.
Why else would I be waiting for a train?

I'm going to bed fully clothed, which happens from time to time
Not because it's cold, or I need to leave in a rush later
Or because I even think it's that good of an idea
It just feels like too much tonight
To even take off my pants

There's a spot in here for you... if you don't mind the denim jeans
Or the blankets, set aspin, like loads of clothes in the washer
Or arms and legs barraging you in limbo 'tween wake and sleep
A brain too restless and concerned
Can't lay still to save your night