You are my bookshelf.
From tree trunk to my room;
with nightstand and couches for neighbors.

In some catalogue you might
be ordered and tidy, with turquoise
bindings and untouched papers.

But you age with me,
we wither and decay.

If I wanted you to stay flawless
I would need to do the same.

The tomes that burden you
are portals to your heart.
Without them, what would you be?

When I wipe the dust off, I wheeze -
Yet I wouldn't open your books
If I didn't care enough to see.

For with every new novel,
every remarkable misadventure,

Your shelves creak and strain,
but my passion for you grows tender.

It's just so unhealthy.
bad for my grades
bad for my appetite
bad for my slumber

Just handcuff my cortex -
I can't keep pretending
like this isn't all I think about

I can hear the sirens coming
so I start a crossword puzzle

To distract; lest I indict myself more.

Li-ttle peo-ple do-ing a-dult things.
Life is too slow, get out of the slow lane.
Friends are too dull, get out of your mind.
Hitch a ride on the veins of your arm.
This liquid is the fertilizer to your flowers.
The ink to your shocking autobiography.
You've broken those ropes that once constrained,
Left that home that made you gasp for air.
So drive off into the sunset and breathe.

"What are you afraid of?"
nothing
The nothing that left, but never said why
So that when you lay on the tiles,
it feels like a whole breath escaped you.

I feel it when I reach into my right pocket
and fail to hear the sound of keys.
Yet those problems have solutions, and I
am left with nothing I can do.

Heights - a worthy foe, a common problem
Keep your shoes at sea level.

You cannot flee from nothing
Nothing is terminal: the outline of its shadow.

Serpents and spiders may sink their fangs,
but there is no antidote which lets you do,
when all you can do, is nothing.

isn't it a shame how
one little memory ruins
such appetizing scenery?

a bus stop by a hotel.
empty church parking lot.
the riverside pier.

if I could frame those spaces
and show you what I saw
maybe you'd change your mind.

a fear of falling fast.
stumbling youth left unlived.
promises broken.

this one who has stepped on stones
through the green marshes of my mind
ignored the moss and the mulch
that the creatures leave behind.

to her, the path is familiar
knowing more about the land
than the architect of the maze
who constructed it by hand.

While they have never looked
deep into each other's eyes,
The pathway through the swamp,
the two souls did devise.

That night our love was
fluorescent and mint-green.

Air stood still in the hospital halls,
and I could hear your lungs at work.

I took my shoes off to match you,
and let the sleeping tile freeze my soles.

I only felt suited when
I could share a fraction of your pain.

A promise was made.
We would keep your bracelet.

When you are released,
we'll stash it in a safe place.

When a plague sinks its teeth,
I'll put your bracelet on.

To remind me of the wounds
I wanted to take for you.

Like a foolish boy I once
went looking for danger,
Learning of tall tales
then seeking them for myself.

The gazette speaks of a melding
between two celestial bodies.
Don't gaze directly at it
no matter how sublime it may be.

I have met the protagonist before
if even through tinted shields.
A lifelong rapport, yet is
hitherto a subtle stranger.

I braved a look yesterday,
to examine all the fuss.
Touched by your spell
as your visage fills my eyes.

Now when I blink I spot you
staring back with blue flame.
A face etched into the cave of
my sockets - your new home.

Forecast arrives, moon meets sun
as my anxiety sweats in my hand.
I don no lenses, for you are the
enticing stranger which I cannot fear.

Spoiled milk
I left you waiting in the dark for far too long
and now you've gotta go
These bones are gonna miss you

I am not a sculptor,
wouldn't shape you in stone.
I just wanted to paint,
and give your smile a home.

I sat by my easel,
giving blotches for backgrounds.
To show you that vision
that always follows me 'round.

Amidst sullen, sickly moss,
unable to be harmed:
You, a curious clover.
So queer, yet I am charmed

This portrait, I said,
I'm making as a gift.
You took a step back
and conjured up a rift.

I finished the sketch,
except for your smile.
I wouldn't need ten years,
but merely a short while.

my poor castaway son
why do you draw your own blood?

you bleed for azure butterflies;
yet they are false, maybe you were
mistaken by speckled shadows
on the walls of your lonesome igloo.

my distraught little boy
why do you clutch your pillow so tight?

you never had a problem sleeping
and you complain of heat at night.
what makes the company of another
so desirable in twilight hours?

my son, bearer to my name
why can't you sing the way you used to?

you followed her breath like a beacon
and she lead you down foreign footpaths.
reluctantly pack up your campsite,
and escort yourself to another route.

my son, my sole wish is
for you to love yourself
as much as I love you.

It is winter.
I am on a bus.
This is the most efficient way home.
When I arrive, I will efficiently relax
and efficiently entertain myself.

The numerous participants of this bus
likely have similar plans.
Though we rattle in unison
like bottles in a six-pack,
Everyone wants nothing to do with everyone.

The bus is stopped at a light.
Two men are drenched in sunlight.
They cross, buffeted by fierce winds.
It is winter.
I am on a bus.

Among two men, four arms are occupied.
One is a shield, guarding from the sun.
One is a white cane, guarding from the earth.
Two are coupled, and together they cross.

The men are not related,
apart from their aged appearance.
They complete the crossing,
and one of the men lowers his hand.

Disability becomes ability,
and a caregiver is left reeling.
For generosity is most rewarding,
after unearthing one's humanity.