Have you ever
taken a picture
of a sunset,
just to realize that
you'll never capture
the true
colors,
the intense
emotions,
the full
beauty
of that moment?

Have you ever
taken a picture
of the crescent moon,
only to find that
you'll never catch
the unfolding
mysteries,
the brilliant
light,
the unwavering
loyalty
of that moment?

That's how I feel
when I try to
write poems
about you.

I felt you in my bones
Strolling home
An instant of nostalgia and euphoria
I saw the Galaxy in your spine
The seasons are changing
Your cold gaze feels like autumn wind
Golden warmth of limbs draping
Smoke and tahini
We've lost ourselves
It's a good thing.

i've been watching you sleep
when the manifestos and proclamations of week days have become too heavy
slithering through me
i dream so much more beautiful
a block and half away from my own haven
streaks of red lipstick on my right hand
lullabies of your sleep talk

I bought it.

I bought it for more then i thought it would cost me.

And now it's all drawn, this month long purple line.

Will it take me? Will i be shaped and morphed and molded?

Can i come back bigger and better then i was?

Time to ride the paper airplane, and loose myself again

Adventures come, just like the tides

Lick my finger and check the wind.

Pages filled, photos trace the truth in tiny flecks of ink.

And I become lonesome in my perfect joy.

Joyful in my contented solitude.

And maybe a boy named Jesus with skin like the first
He'll kiss my eyes and smell like a perfect storm

and that can be my brief tomorrow.

Sinful sleep and fruit from stands.

and songs and magic of holding hands.

If time is a tube,
my life is a spiral,
A snail shell,
Sea creature,
Peculiar and Viral

and I work hard and move fast and time gets quicker,
slicker, with the blink of an eye and the tapping of a finger.

The day off that i was supposed to have
but you cancelled it out
and penciled in other plans.

My time is meaningless, it belongs to someone else, but the faster i go, the smaller it gets, the inside out feeling,
of living without rest.

Time continues without me, i know this is true
yet the fact that I'm lonesome doesn't account for the glue,
that keeps me to my shoes and my shoes to the ground
and the world that keeps turning, with its ups and its downs.

But it's getting smaller, not the world but my life,

horizons are shrinking, cut away with my knife.
That cuts cake for my customer, and slices my bread,
till one day it cuts me to my bones till its said;

She sleeps with the fishes,
he muttered that to a girl
So the poem made sense, but all in a whirl
my poem is splotchy and dusty with time,

that keeps shrinking and shrinking,
until the last rhyme.

They say
"You look like her!"
But they don't really know what she is
And neither do I
Her sunken turquoise eyes are rarely open
Her thin mouth moves and food that has dried around her lips never finds its way in.

She has stopped eating.

She looks hollow

She looks like the end has come and she's still waiting by the door

Beckoning the scythe
But death has not taken her hand

She whimpers and smiles

And sleeps for days


I do love you
But loving and grieving and dying and living

They are not the same

Like my hand on yours
We are just bones
Then stories

Then silence
And time spent
On forgetting to live
And delaying to die

I do look like her
same cheek bones
Same nose
But different stories

Because hers she told so many times that it told her how the rest would go

And my story is untold
So boldly I unfold my life in front of me.
All the steps are open towards infinite grace

But all we are, is bones then stories, then silence except for the sound of the door
When I say goodbye for the last time

I can paint you in a few short strokes,

Imagined, designed, fleshed out in passionate paint.

I'll enjoy my time, i truly will.

Our tiny window of creating and consummating.

Relating, remembering, expressing, then releasing.

Then i have done what i can.

It's not my own anymore.

Maybe this work never was.