that i've been reading your poetry
(on the new front page)
and,

I ******* love
your words; your worlds;
it's like i'm,
    there. right there,
with you.

you see, i didn't do what you do--
         write my story aloud
--when i was fifteen, or even twenty-two

just an inch off the ground
                        i confided in clouds
stayed lost (was a puff too proud)

that was then, sure, but even today
   (it's 11:11, now)
putting any of it down
committing to this word, not that
this sentiment,
      not that
this meaning
       (and not simultaneously that)
              is walking through fire

and so, for leading the way
           let me just say,
                       i love you

and please,
don't ever stop.

the minute i felt the gentle breeze brushing against my skin from between the dusty rocks, i fell into a daze
a dream almost,
the dream where that one thing you desperately needed was in your between your fingers, begging, just aching for you to capture it
and the minute you close your fist to hold it, it vanishes - like a cloud of smoke
you awake, and all that is left is a fist clutching the sheets
gone before you could comprehend what it was

maybe it was a feeling, maybe it was the dripping beauty that saturated my thoughts every time my eyes fluttered open,
almost as if my mind didn't believe we were still there
believed that we were still dreaming

and maybe, maybe it was the idea that this was a single place in the world where i would never feel sadness.
maybe i was in love with the idea that the beauty and soft purple flowers growing out of dust could heal my worried and tired soul

when the desert sun rose on that Thursday spring morning, i brushed my teeth, and shrugged on the same shorts i had worn the entirety of the road trip
bell rock was the hike we would make
red powder built on my shoes as the wind pushed my sticky bangs around my forehead, and i stopped to look at the names, intitals and hearts scratched into the rock,
i thought about how proud the rocks must be, for people carved the letters of their name into them, just hoping, praying that a place this beautiful would remember them;
i thought, maybe they hoped that the part of them that carved their name along with their lovers would always be stuck in Sedona, smack dab in the middle of that lone desert paradise
while sitting on the top of bell rock, the red stone underneath me, cold and raw on my bare thighs
i felt the rocks speak
they told me, "do not be afraid, for i have been here before souls were poured into humans, i have lived long before you and i will live long after you, my dear; do not be afraid"

the mountains have eyes, i can sense it
they feel every snowflake wet,
and every hiking shoe dry,
loving, and embracing the beautiful home they created
and as for me, well, i wanted to be one too
i wanted to stand, and listen to the hum of the buzzing highway below,
and the hawks in the sky above
in the cool air of the desert
for the rest of eternity

In the moments when silence is fueled by adrenaline and instinct. Words thrive the most,
Cornered like animals hiding from prey.
And in a world fascinated by the less adequate beauties gorgeousness is not hard to find.
But when I see you my passion is silenced and beauty is all but mute.
So when we speak the words are natural the adrenaline is gone and the world is no longer gorgeous.
Because its lost all its beauty to you.