I lay quietly beside your soft soul.
The lioness of the daffodils -
overgrown rests on our peaceful hearts.
In lush gardens of Abigail and Primrose laughter
that consume my vision, the pearlescent moon
beams lighting this dark quietude.

My five fingers meets your hands,
we begin to glow like fireflies in the night sky.
Restless and consumed by a cosmic energy of
a million moons, and a multitude of revolving planets.
My gossamer soul whispers to your lucid soul.
Bathing under the moonlight, you whisper words that
sooth my tormented heart. Words that light a flickering
honeycomb candle, a multitude of miniature lanterns
in a sacred temple. Words that cast shadows of
promises in the vault of my heart...

Sweet hymns of nightingales
awaken this soul; pollinating it
into full bloom. Nectar melts the
wax walls, the rush of the mystic
river baptises the ancient soul,
extinguishing flames into sodden ashes.

Spying trees whisper with the wind.
The soul emits an ethereal glow,
like jewelled constellations
forming a carousel in the night sky.
The scent of almond flower evokes
lingering memories in the transparent air.

The revived soul spreads its wings,
at twilight breaking the bond between its companion as it bids farewell to the
earthly world and embraces the
heavens cocooning it's being.

She sat next to me
on a hill by the sea,
under the shade
of an old aspen tree.

We sat hand in hand,
watched waves caress sand,
when she turned with bright eyes
and she made her demand.

It was light in the sky
and the birds fluttered by,
but my heart remained cold
and I didn't know why.

Like a story she told:
"If I may be so bold,
I just ask that you love me,"
her voice sounded cold.

My words whispered now,
I spoke shame like a vow,
confessed best I could
that I didn't know how.

It was bare on that hill
with us both lacking will;
she recited a poem,
I remember it still.

So I pondered love,
cast my eyes up above
and I realized I didn't
know anything of.

There were no words to say,
so she walked away,
and alone by the sea
is where forever I'll stay.

I sleep on white bed sheets
with the windows open
so the breeze can brush my face
and the rain can fall on my lips.
I sleep in the gray half-light that
washes the color from my walls.

My skin is bare, fingers tangled in
the blankets, hair drying in the
same air that dries the dew
off of the leaves.

Get drunk on dreams
crumple the sheets
ice packs and underwear
poetry, bracelets, books.

I sleep with tearstained cheeks
swollen eyes and a runny nose
and bite marks in my mouth.
I sleep with a heavy heart
and fingertips on fire.

Dizzy, fuzzy eyesight
and fantastic scenarios
played out like film in my head.

I sleep in the warmest
and coldest room of my house.
I sleep under quilts and blankets
curled up against the cold,
and I sleep naked
with the air warm against my skin.

I always sleep with a book
at my bedside
and the drapes opened
so I can see the stars.

I sleep through sunsets and sunrises
and lightning that cracks open the sky.
I sleep through delicate snowstorms
and hazy summer smoke.

I sleep by myself
and I seize the quiet
as a moment of my own,
not shared
not secret.

I sleep for life and rebirth
and tranquility,
for peace and second chances.
I sleep for mornings.

"****."
She says through a mouthful of cigarette smoke and hair. She has bitten open her lip again, and it bleeds.
This is not unusual; blood is her own scarlet lipstick. Breaking skin is a nervous habit she just can't shake.
But she laughs it off, pushes dark hair out of a pale face. Her eyes are as gray as the winter sky.
We stand under the eaves of a dilapidated old restaurant. The sign has read CLOSED for at least six years. It's not raining but it might as well be. The air chills my open eyes.
It's mostly quiet.
She smokes.
I write.
When she breaks the silence I listen reverently. She talks of little things, anecdotes I can't resist.
She thinks philosophy is *******.
One time she spat out her toothpaste and it was ******.
She hates her freckles.
(I think they are stars on her skin.)
She had to dissect a baby pig once and she doesn't eat meat anymore.
She has broken the law twenty-two times.
She keeps count.
I don't ask her questions because I know she won't answer. Something stops her answers in her throat.
She laughs often.
She is not happy, though.
There is a distinct heaviness about her persona. It's the air of a frequently-exploited soul. I am filled with a vicarious sadness when I am with her.
I wonder if perhaps I am siphoning some of her sadness and if maybe she feels a bit lighter.
I don't know.
It does begin to rain. She is in love with rainy days. I hope it brings her peace.
She gazes at the rain as though she can feel each droplet seeping into the ground, her soul.
I gaze at her the same way.

Your hands easy
weight, teasing the bees
hived in my hair, your smile at the
***** of my cheek. On the
occasion, you press
above me, glowing, spouting
readiness, mystery rapes
my reason

When you have withdrawn
your self and the magic, when
only the smell of your
love lingers between
my *******, then, only
then, can I greedily consume
your presence.

With an azure drinking cup studded with lapis, wait for her
In the evening at the spring, among perfumed roses, wait for her
With the patience of a horse trained for mountains, wait for her
With the distinctive, aesthetic taste of a prince, wait for her
With seven pillows stuffed with light clouds, wait for her
With strands of womanly incense wafting, wait for her
With the manly scent of sandalwood on horseback, wait for her
Wait for her and do not rush.

If she arrives late, wait for her.
If she arrives early, wait for her.
Do not frighten the birds in her braided hair.
Wait for her to sit in a garden at the peak of its flowering.
Wait for her so that she may breathe this air, so strange to her heart.
Wait for her to lift her garment from her calf, cloud by cloud.
And wait for her.

Take her to the balcony to watch the moon drowning in milk.
Wait for her and offer her water before wine.
Do not glance at the twin partridges sleeping on her chest.
Wait and gently touch her hand as she sets a cup on marble.
As if you are carrying the dew for her, wait.
Speak to her as a flute would to a frightened violin string,
as if you knew what tomorrow would bring.
Wait, and polish the night for her ring by ring.
Wait for her until Night speaks to you thus:
There is no one alive but the two of you.
So take her gently to the death you so desire,
and wait.