You said that you didn't believe in anything,
but that you believed in me.
In truth, I believe in you more than I say.
I see more in you than I say.
When you fight me, fight so hard against hope, I see you.
I do not know what you have been through.
I do not know what has been done to you.
I do not know how to tell you
that your belief in me
means more than
the fire on your tongue,
or the laughter in your eyes,
or the darkness that you draw from me.
Though you do not apologize with words
you do
with softness in your eyes,
and the brush of rough fingers against my arm in passing,
the curve of my neck lovingly sketched with graphite,
You say that you would die for me,
but I do not want you to.
I would have you live,
vibrant and happy,
laughing,
the bottle lying forgotten in a corner,
your hand in mine,
breathing in the scent of turpentine;
because I would like to believe in us.

I said that I would black your boots when,
in reality,
I would do so much more.
When I say the things I do.
the terrible words that I see douse the lights in your eyes,
I cannot help it.
They flow from my mouth like wine from a bottle,
a bitter cognac into a cup,
and though your flame should sometimes be fostered by the alcohol,
at times it is too much.
For that, I apologize.
I would be better for you.
I would fight your battles,
be the brunt of every joke,
be the example of those who do not care,
take any punch your enemies might throw.
I would believe.
I would feel passion enough to believe in something.
I believe in nothing,
but
I believe in you.
In your light and darkness,
in your speech and silence,
in your disbelief in me.
I said that I would black your boots when,
in reality,
I would die for you.

warmth in the evening when my mind wanders
a stuttering beat to which my feet cannot dance
the sound of a sigh on the wind
and the sweet scent of salt water as i walk to back home

a fire roaring on the hearth
and the soft touch of lips on my forehead
the heavy scent of coffee on sunday morning
turning around the car at the rumbling of my stomach

the sharp taste of blood in my mouth
the fiery rush of it under my fingers
the weakening flutter of you heart
your life in my hands

a chroí
my heart
beating far too fast
as i think back on the things
i took for granted

The sound of my love is a harp
you plucking my heartstrings until they make fine music
as I sing a melody along with your skillful fingers
How naturally you played
as if you didn't know what you were doing
You do know, right?
Oh
I see
And the music dies off but still I sing
the melody that you played in my heart
to the empty expanses of the
life I lead
And I remember the taste of cheap wine and cigarettes in your mouth
although we were both too young to drink
and I remember your voice singing softly in my ear
songs for someone else
and I remember the touch of your hands on my sides and on my face
and the taste of my own blood in my mouth from your clumsy teeth
and I remember crying out the window while looking at the skyline
and the new year's fireworks that weren't ours
And still I sing your song
but not for you to hear
to preserve the melody you stole from my heart

If you close your eyes and listen closely
you can hear the ocean in my lungs like a conch
After once deciding that I was thirsty for something other than life
for control
I drank the sea like a cup of fresh black tea in the afternoon.
And as my lungs stilled and my eyes slid closed
I felt the pull of the current
and the call of the one who calls us all to the sea
lost sailors we are
with no boats and too many troubles
She sang into the night, voice old and wise
voice lulling and moving
voice the sound of home
and waves crashing upon the shore
But as I saw her face, I saw she disapproved
as the men carried my body through the stark whiteness of bliss
And she sang a song of sadness for me
a song of wanting but wanting for little
a song of praise for the golden house of the sun in the morning
that reflected in the waves of her eye
And I felt the ocean pull me back out, back to this world I am not sure I love
away from the one who still calls to me
and I listen quietly
still
and silent
except for the sound of the ocean in my lungs