Sometimes when I'm lost in this abyss
I wonder if you miss me
As much as I do you.

Sometimes when the clouds start to thunder
A dark and lonely storm
I wonder if you miss me
Holding you to keep you warm.
As much as I miss holding you
When the curtains they drew in the dawn
And each time we were reborn in each others arms,
Together.

And I wonder when these storms will start to clear
Because its already been a year and three days
And in so many ways
I still haven't let you go.

let it not be confused
let no one else's name
ring throughout these sentences
let this be a hatchet
let me put this to rest
this is not a test
i don't want to think
about shipwrecks anymore
i am tired of folding apologies
into origami birds
and placing them
at the headstones to your tantrums
this is not is not geology class
these are promises
written on razorblades
      & if you are getting choked up
        then maybe you should be
maybe we should be buried
with our telescopes face down
my mouth is full of sorry
all for being honest
we are falling out of orbit
we are burning bystanders
so cast away your callous condolences
because no one is clapping
in this waist deep water
this is not a baptism
so do not tell strangers
that this was a chance to drown
any differently
i am not a catalogue
of constellations you cannot name
this is not mythology
so stop believing your horoscope
i am not a wishing well
i am just a wall for you
to paint post nuclear fallout & antonyms for catharsis on
we destroy the things
that are not ours-
the wanton ways
we embody wrecking *****
and then cry over the rubble
this is not a heap or a mosaic
this is leaping
off a thousand story building
with no one to catch you
at the bottom & maybe
that's why some quiet moments
are so fragile, maybe that's why butterflies have mimicry
your words are black powder
and poetry is your musketry
i guess that makes me your blindfold

Inspiration often manifests itself
in a female form
poetry, prose, pretty girls
igniting creativity. 

7th grade
heart smitten
hand clenched
scrawling, attempting
to formulate the essence
of the oak tree where we met. 
Charcoal pencil
cardstock paper
smudged hands
furrowed brow
stealing glances at her face 
(call it "motivation")
increasing heartbeat
blood flowing to my 
fingertips
through the wood and onto paper.

It's cyclical...
tree trunk felled 
for pencil and paper, reincarnated
as an oak
in a marriage of the two. 
Wood reformulated,
oak leaves reaching to the sun-- 
the glowing aura of her. 

The oak tree picture
its likeness
and she--
all left behind 
in time
distance
memory. 
Years later, I feel it again:
the siren song of a muse. 

But long abandoned charcoal,
cardstock paper gone. 
Now,
I am a painter
I decorate my canvases with words
of you, for you 
the one who makes
my fingertips prolific
they fumble
searching for the path 
to a Masterpiece.