The air is crisp.
Crisp, that is the word my dad used to describe Gwen's voice after the No Doubt concert. I was eight then.

Crisp, the word I thought of, when I was flicking that brown lighter I thought it would be funny to buy, sitting on the stoop. Striking the wheel, careful not to hit the little red button. The air swept against the sunglasses I paid too much for with the lenses that are mismatched and the sweater my mom bought me two christmases ago that originally I hated.

Falling leaves drift by those little windows to my soul but I am too distracted by the thought of him coming to pick me up to try to attach them back to the tree. Too bad too, because with every leaf detached, comes winter further on my face.

Thats when the crystals fall from my dreams, and cover the once adobe hills in spells of skyscrapers. Those are the guys who form tools out of my can of hairspray and chip at the ozone trying to scrape off the blue, and see what all that paint is covering. Icarus is horrified.

It's scary,
It's terrifying,
How your love is meant to cure but instead I become *weary,
Your words are hate defying.

I'm waiting,
I'm impatient.
You're leaving one day, that goes without saying.
Don't mean to hurt you, I'm just being blatant.

It's sad,
It's dreadful,
How you try so hard to please me as I'm waving a red flag.
I'm pushing, you keep pulling- soon you'll be regretful.

I'm weak,
I'm needy.
Be strong for the both of us as I **** the strength out of you with every word I speak.
I beg you to stay as I push you out, hardheartedly.

You're striving,
You're standing tall.*
Telling me to believe in us whilst we're *thriving.
But I'm fragile, powerless- we're beginning to fall and *there's nothing you can say or do at all.

Don't want to speak too soon
   or speak too late, for that matter

Should speak up and speak out
   ...cat got your tongue?

But not speak ill or speak out of turn
   ...bite your tongue!

Above all, speak the truth, your truth
   ...not with a forked tongue

Truth be told
   sometimes I don't want to speak at all
And if you knew me
   that would truly be saying something

Speak!...Speak!...Good boy...

Slumbered scratching into a bedside notebook
   lying in darkness under a thick blanket of revelation
Afraid that lamplight may blind these 3am eyes
   to the dim, wispy glow of mystical comprehension

Trusting that valued mysteries will later be deciphered
   from this barely legible scrawl of the night
Refusing to squander such moments of divine lucidity
   captured in a poetic hand written outside the lines

Reluctant to wait until morning lest the light of day
   exposes a tenuous relationship to reality
Causing rays of enlightenment to glance off its surface
   in beams of obscure and superficial logic

Tangential truths
   scribbled in the dark

.

Maybe today
that cute guy
from downstairs in #6
the quiet one
who winks
will helpcarry
my heavy grocery bags
up the stairs
put them on the counter
ask me of I need help
with any other chores.

I've never heard
a voice like his
the lilt and timbre
or the graceful strength
of his lion hips
as he heads toward the door
and just when I think
he will vanish
down the stairs
he stops to turn
his gaze on me
as time stands still
and I step toward him
breathlessly hoping
he will speak
my name.

A deep trumpet sounds
from some distant place
as he reaches
for my hand
and his lithe body
begins to vibrate and glow
a pulsating male miracle
of rainbow light
with diamonds
dancing among
fingers of white fire
wrapping him
in celestial heat
that does not burn
and from his strong shoulders
rise great silver wings
angelic and potent
beating in synchronous time
to the rhythm
of my heart
and I know
what this means.
I know who
he is.

The next day
I look for him
but the landlord says
he moved out this morning
and left this note for you.

"I never caught your name,
but I like the way sunlight
dances in your eyes.
I am not far.
Come.
Find me."

After the argument
all he could do
was slump down
in the old chair
near the window
that looks out
onto the wide garden
beside the lake.

He yelled louder
as usual
dominated and gesticulated
but has paid
the same dear price
as she trembles
hidden behind
the soft pillows
she hoped
would cradle
words of love.

Every time she asks
please love me
a little slower
this time
he hears criticism
flying into a rage
panicking to realize
he does not know how
to do anything
but clutch at her
with the harsh hands
of a frightened man
who cannot hear
cannot see
and cannot believe
she loves him
at all.