The last man alive
raised his gun
and emptied it
into the sun
as it sank
out of sight
left alone
in the night
he couldn't decide
what he'd won.

Rarely do I see myself...
As only the broken, damaged
     pieces seem to draw my attention

Is it any wonder that you
     take my breath away
You accept my
     broken, damaged pieces
And that is a wonder

But the greatest gift
     the greatest wonder
You have ever given me
     is looking at me in such a way
That now I too can see the
     pieces of me that are whole

Now I too know that
     I am more than the sum
     of those poor broken, damaged pieces

My only hope
     is that I return the gift

I tried to
write
a poem about you
but instead
I scribbled a
big, orange-ink blob
and I figured
that made
just as much sense.

Every time I’m lost, I will come back to you
I will sit here with a pen and we will meet
And I will cry to you, beyond the words
I will ask you questions without answers

You will never know it,
But you will lead me back

Because sometimes, when I drive down any highway
I yearn to stop at any small town
And believe that I could live a life of wandering
Every small town has a story
But the words will bring me home to you

And sometimes, when I find any lovely shaded garden
I’m enticed into hidden corners
And believe that I could live a life of wondering
Every corner has its secrets
But to learn them is to be with you

I have spent a thousand sleepless nights
Dreaming of you

I am a writer, and as I toss and roll
I dream of your smile, your tears
Your beating heart

Just maybe as you read
You dream of my sleepless mind
On a highway winding
In a hidden corner
You’ll find me