she asked

is there love

at the end

of the line

are the words

from your heart

or your mind

are they warm

empty phrases

or a pledge

for the ages

is there love

at the end

of the line

She is the brightest Sun.
She is the web the spider spun.

She is the candle light.
She is my second sight.

She is the beauty in my mind.
She is my faith in human kind.

She is the blue of the sky.
She is the voice of a seagulls' cry.

She is the leaves on the tree.
She is the movement of the sea.

She is the clouds high above.
She is the woman that I love.

the city we are obligated to call home:

'it's pulsing, like a heartbeat'
really
i          
just
want
to
feel
                            yours. a steady bassline to keep track of,
tap my foot to in this unsteady place called love.

'that? that's just gases rising and light being hit in the right way'

from where your arms are cold around my waist, it seizes my attention that the

                            moon is nowhere to be found.

we Need to talk

-why is this something saved for later? a floaty, indefinite time in the future: words that fester get no easier to say

we Need to take a break

-cracking open the distance between us like two halves of an egg shell only renders us broken and ready to run

we Need to be in love

-what if our ideas of love don't match?

the only thing worse than needing is
                                                                      greeding

We're taught to love straight lines.

It's this thought I wrestle with
as the road I choose turns and winds,
it's the 25-mile-per-hour speed limit kind,
it's so slow, so ****** slow and most
folks resent the view and miss the show.

Air compresses stronger than steel
at the sight of this mirror I reel
trying to find straight lines where none exist
trying to find the steps I missed.
Movement forms a breeze
of leave, and I drive.

I'm realizing how beautiful you are
without even looking at you.

If I was looking, I know our eyes
would be even,
perfectly distanced
so that no one could hear all the
whispers we share:
through what we see
and what we wish we could
forget.

I know you rearranged your
furniture, and asked for my advice
about the things you know I like
to talk about, and that you gave
me the room I needed so that I could
descend through my sadness like a
bucket of oil spilled over gravel

but there's always a something
and with me there's too much change.

I've let myself slip in and out of the rocks
and I've settled in a shape like stars and
kittens.

Darling, you're not my teacher
or my mother, you're just a woman
with a son and short hair with asthetically
pleasing walls that are good for looking at
with crying eyes.

I'll steal books and rip pages out for you
if you let me. There's only so much I can
say with this body and it's never the same.
If you're looking for a constant, I suggest
you stay away from liquid.

She's the kind of girl who
locks the bathroom door
in her own house
when she showers.

I would pray to whichever God
that could make me the water
that runs down her neck,
and every other part of her,
down to the drain.

Tonight, I'll bake bread
because I need 
good smells 
and warm hands 
and a sense of purpose.

I blamed it all on Scorpius—
my secret self, the sting, the lust,
my conditional approach to trust.

I shrugged at Mars when jealousy
and suspicion got the best of me;
I was just his astral devotee.

And my vengeful hate for all unjust?
It all went back to Scorpius,
but, alas, I hovered on the cusp;

I'm Libra now. I'll readjust.