Within the intense buzzing of this draft city
I see nothing written on the faces of children, men, and women. In books,
on the television,
and in every conversation
It's an endless black hole leading to God knows where-
and it's calling my name.

He jams to rock n roll and probes technology with his long fingers.
His eyes tell a story
as his words paint him sunglasses.
Hope's his worst enemy and
longing's his middle name but he'll have you believe it's all guns
and sly comments.
God loves him and so do I
but he's not ones for happy endings.

From the cracks of the sidewalk, I see the world
in snippets and clips,
my reality pieced together.
God shouted from the heavens once
"You are what you are and I am what I am
Nothing else matters, Feeler."
I don't much talk to God these days
when he's in his office. I saw Him at the hospital the other day
and walked the other direction.

Too late to right the wrongs,
close the gaps and heal the wounds. For every occasion
I'll be ready for a disaster.
Bury the past if it does no good
and ignore the self-righteous.
The after life is no place for dead trees.

In a suit of grace and sweet memories, my angle of death says hello
at the end of my bed every night.
Within my heart are answers
to his ancient questions
and within my eyes are
his fears. Back and forth he strides,
staring relentlessly
searching his conscience for answers. Chasing the cool.

Most of the time, I listen,
Short stories, battle scars and romance.
I swear I met Romeo once
or at lease his reincarnate. He had eyes
full of longing.
Most of the time, I find myself waiting,
for answers, time to pass,
and him.
But mostly, I'm happy.

Longing.
It's the burn of a vast hole full of emptiness
right in the center of my chest,
my heart beats hollow within his hands-
half way across the world.

Second story windows used to call my name-
the wind in my hair, free falling.
But I stare and dream constantly of freedom
with dark circles around blood shot eyes.
I try to be a better someone.
Beckon me.

You're pretty with that thousand dollar smile,
bliss.
With your hair in a mess on top of your head-
Satan's got a bid on your soul.

Flowers in my hands, I stand at your door
with my heart, mind and eyes open
ready to free fall into the intensity of your eyes.
I'll wait for you
to come down and find me
in my faded blue jeans
standing with stars in my eyes. Find me.

I fell apart with the water from the shower head today,
cascading downward, crashing sporadically on the tub floor,
my purpose washed away
down the drain
forgotten forever. The tears,
like daggers, bleeding from my eyes
Oh how I wish the pain was but a nightmare
thrashing in my sleep
a lie on my eyelids.
But it wasn't,
and there he stood before me
with balled fists
so unaware of the tornado inside me
with destruction undefined by words,
hell.
It's a lot like hell,
with the fire behind my words .

Chin up my dearly beloved,
with your smile that could coax the sun into rising early
the stars to twinkle brighter
my worries melting away like the butter in this skillet.
I'll make you two eyes, over easy,
finished with a smile of sausage
you never were one for bacon,
let it replace the loneliness on your face like a plague of tomorrow's unknown.
My dearly beloved,
wipe those tears, as I do
with my love like tissues
a blanket sheltering you from the vicious snares of the world
harassing your innocence,
my sweet angel of grace.
You perplex me,
this ***** grey world of angry monkeys we call humans
with their daggers and words of spitfire,
your bright light brings me through to a place of enlightenment
of beauty I thought only existed in fairy tales
and the dreams dancing on the underside of my eyelids.

Dear sweet beloved,
these cracks, they are temporary
with their **** doubts and fears like a virus-
My beloved,
listen to the whispers of my fingertips and lullabies of my hips
and every kiss and tender love song I speak to you with my every thought,
my being,
I tell you-
my being-
is and always has been only for you
with just the purpose of you,
my dearly beloved.

Rhythmic typing on the dusty old keyboard,
a rehearsed and half hearted greeting committed to memory through convenience.
These days blur together with the hello's and the goodbye's,
incoming strangers trying to find a purpose.
This desk is like a prison that asks too much and pays too little,
with smiles from distance ghosts and greetings from wounded travelers.
My veins are collecting dusk as my bones grind together
burning at both ends, my seams are frayed and falling apart,
I'm a rag doll.
He stitches patches on my missing parts and bullet wounds,
he calls it love,
picking up the pieces and cleaning up the blood dripping from my bad decisions and messy intentions.
He understands me
with his innocence peeking through his smile,
his eyes are like windows to a world you find in the dreams of little children.
Sometimes I cry at night, wrapped in his arms
the wind of doubt and fear chilling my skin and bones
I want to wrap myself in the warmth of his confidence
basking in the enlightenment that are his thoughts.
My statue, rock of truth.

This dreary life lightened by the simple reality of the breeze that is him,
rustling the dust within me.
My truth.
My escape from dusty keyboards.