I met a man on the winding way in the travels of my youth.
I set off from my home in good spirits; it was June. I remember.
My walking stick light in my hand,
I skipped each step as I began,
but there before me stood a man;
Never had I seen such a man; a beard so grey; eyes so green;
Not a man, then, he! He could only be
a soulful spectre dark. Sadly, quietly, he whispered

"Stay...
          Thou art so beautiful..."

His melancholy took my heart in its hands, and squeezed...
Such words... What sad prophetic words are these?
His eyes were glassy, yet far from crazed; so clear
were they in their manic daze. He drew me near
by my collar and whispered to my fearful ears
so close that I could feel his breath
and see in his eyes this looming death
of which he was not afraid. Yet still his words bespoke such fear.

"Stay...
          Thou art so lovely."

I saw it then, he did not speak to me, and at this I shuddered violently,
but his voice was a gift to the world, and given free;
had I but the grace to listen.
I left the man, or he left me, in mist that weaved and glistened.
Green it was, like those eyes that so vainly searched.
Formless, he dispersed and formless still he fled.
No soul rose above my head in search
of Heaven; Limbo; Hell. No spark at all in that tattered shell.
Yet still, my skin crawled with a shiver,
as in a dream I heard me whisper; in mirror with his knowing knell,
"Stay...
Thou art so beautiful."

My lips closed, and so too did my mind.
The skip gone from my step,
I turned and left
that wayward man behind.

But now my time too draws near;
even as I relate the story of that day,
my walking stick digs into the gravel and I suddenly remember
that man I met on the winding way,
and my eyes alight even as my vision sways!
I understand his lament on that long lost day;
his final, faltering cry of

     "Stay.
                            Please stay, Oh pains and joys of life...
                           Thou art so beautiful
                                              in thy own light. No more so than in thy strife.
                           Thou art so lovely
                                              in the dark. Even lit by scarce moonlight.

Take my hand, Mephisto, and walk with me a while!
Take my hand, sinner! Take my hand, you who thinks yourself so vile!
Let us taste a while of life, my friends, and bask in its rich delight.
And Lord! Let me scream such words as Faust,

Should I speak my last regrets tonight.

Clenching. Teeth. Rattle. Sleep
is a memory.
She is dead to me... Or so I said.

Screaming. Teeth. Clench. She
is a memory.
Sleep won't erase this shaking dread.

Cigarettes. Teeth. Corks. Whiskey
is an elegy.
It reminds me there's a world outside my head.
Or so they said.

Today I put on my most expensive suit,
then sat on the floor and watched Netflix.

I should write you October
and I swear I tried, but pens
aren't ribbons, and this time ink isn't red.
The autumn wind whips through the fens.
The chorus line is silent and sober.
The lead singer was found dead
under the bridge. (Haha get it?)
I knew it was stupid soon as I said it.
I swear I tried to write you October
but my heart heavy head
is full of Autumn clovers
and fickle friends.

**** you!
How dare you spurn my words.
With you it's never what I said,
but what you think you heard.

How dare you doubt the nature
of my truth; would I say
that you are beautiful
and mean anything less?
How dare you call me a liar,
and hold under my feet such a fire,
and beg me "Confess! You think I'm ugly,
it's true! How could I be perfect as you?"

I don't point out my own flaws; in your eyes they're not there.
I don't hold up a mirror to my face for you to see my sunken eyes,
I don't list you every lie, or tell you of all my crimes,
I don't quibble and deface what you hold beyond any compare.
I just grin, and say "Thanks," and let it rest there.
And I try to make you understand, but you turn me away,
and now I'm done wasting air.
There's nothing left to explain.
You were beautiful when I said it, now you're ugly in vain.
And could you see that for truth, you'd be beautiful once again.

But it doesn't matter;
You're too busy raging with spittle,
to listen to the truth that I've painstakingly shown.
And I'm too busy loving you
to allow your beauty to not shine through,
So, I take my leave of you,
tears marring that face you claimed to love so,
heading into the unknown,

Oh, **** you, again!
My words; my feelings
are not yours
but my own.
If my feelings mean so little,
Then be ugly alone.

In every stillness lies a whisper.
Gyrating bodies smoulder quicker
than the wick that sickly flickers
from the wind that will not kiss her.

In every kiss there is a silence,
ruled over by tapping tyrants
that exist within the quiet,
No one denies their raucous violence.

In every mind there is a fear,
slow to speak and hard to hear.
In every heart that safe appears,
there are veins that bleed soft tears

and through all the lonely years, I've found
nothing is as kind as it appears. I frown

as she whispers in her sleep, through dreams silent and severe.
Her heartbeat softly weeps, and her demon softly cheers.

I wished upon a starry face,
as you fell frantic through that azure ceiling
at a frightful, worrying breakneck pace,
but your face was on my mind that evening.

The blue's your life, in dizzying hues,
It's acid drops and dub-step tunes.
It's the the manic highs and crushing trenches.
It's playful talks on park-side benches,
right before we kiss goodbye. Then I realize
your lipstick is blue too.

It's like a bruise, sitting there on my cheek,
and it's a pain - If I can- I'd like to keep.
Because this evening, you're on my mind.
And the sky is the color of your eyes.

Azure, frantic, and so alive.

Whisper fierce and hungry, say you'll forever stay my angry muse.
Bite my lip and and scream my name, make your voice my claim to fame.
He offered you such cruel disdain, so come to me. I'll ease the pain.
Shower me with your abuse. A broken heart's a good excuse.

He caged your beast, now set it loose.
Forget the past, what's left to miss?
Take me with you; Let us fuse; rest his name in your tattoos.
Shower me with your abuse. Say you'll stay my angry muse.
Rebound with me in one night's bliss;
His heart is something you can't have,
but my body's here for you to use.

I'm not "Religious".
I believe in sin (Wink wink- If you know what I mean)
but I don't believe in religion when it cajoles or demeans.
Yet there is a ray of light in the windows of my dreams.
And it calls to me in a voice at once radiant and dim.

I call it the universe, but were I Religious, I'd call it "Him".

I am not loud, nor do I preach.
I believe in soft voices, and hymns sung only in one's head.
I believe in the reach of silence, broad and inky and welcoming.
I believe in my own inner thoughts and their peace (and too, their dread)
Yet there is a voice that tells me, in words softly said
that sometimes only the loudest sermons truly can teach.

I am non-religious, and I have been for a while.
I believe in dulcet whispers, and the sweet touch of sin.
I believe in Metal Music, and the musical devil within.
Then why, whenever I see someone capitalize "Him"
does my mouth turn up at the corners,
and grant me an unasked, yet welcome smile?

I know it sounds cliche', but I'm waiting for You.
I'm not waiting for who you could be,
for the concept of you, or the idea
and I don't hold out hope for the feeling of you.
I don't hold out hope for the taste of your lips,
or the feel of your skin,
or the feel of your tongue wrapped around mine as we kiss,
passion melding with passion until it
can't be contained on a page...
until it sits as an empty stanza, because words can't explain it.
Like this:



(Insert Passion here)



It doesn't matter, because now, here,
I'm still waiting,
knowing that somewhere, destiny is also waiting
and destiny will have to keep waiting for a while yet,
but when I find her, I want so badly
for her to whisper in my ear
"Hey, lover. Cool it with the angst.
There's no need to be lonely any more.
I found you. I'm here."

Winter. Snow falls into my hand... melts in my palm.
A frozen brand. A stinging balm.
These whispered words are far from calm.
These frightened tears are far from gone.

Whispered words cut like the crack of a whip,
hot like the slowly melting snow,
in the wake of furious words below.
Hearts run cold like icy ground beneath shaky feet stepping quick
into the slowly sinking snow. Whispered words in metronome,
fill my head, though I and He are here alone.

I was not prepared for this confrontation.
In desperation, my feet refuse to slow;
Frightened tears and feet like metronomes;
I am running scared, and I fear I do not know
what words tonight might lead me safely home.

Stars don't break apart like women and men;
They go out in a blaze of glory when it all ends.
And at that end, when their particles scatter into darkened space,
they rejoin to rejoice once again, when they find themselves free.

                      Tonight, I am a star.
Without you, I've never been more me.
I'm everything I was meant to be;
I'm time-less, space-less, *****-less, and waste-less.
               No "Us", no "together", no "we"
             holding me back from my destiny.
It's Me, Myself, I, and most importantly Mine.
Tonight, I am a star. Tomorrow, I am a galaxy.
               Yesterday, we went supernova.
And now there's a universe of possibilities before me.

From the eyes of God and the minds of men,
Evening began Her gentle fall.
Twirling, a dancer through the midnight glen,
gleaming, a songstress and Her clarion call.

Spinning through motions rehearsed in moonlight,
leaping and landing in a laughing sprawl.
We watched, and He watched too, at the tantalizing sight;
We all watched as She danced, to a man enthralled;

Oh, how we laughed at Her gape, Her gall!
Yet He was not moved by Her frivolous lark.
Within Her laughter, He said, lay the shriveled dark.
A trickster, She was, in Her taunting fall.

I'll teach her, He whispered, the tune She should hark.

We waited in the alley till Evening came;
We stood by and watched in our bitter shame,
as He stole Her laughter and pride, and made Her His thrall.
She cried ****** as He took Her, and spat curse to His name.
We watched Him as His darkness shriveled. God forgive us, we watched,
Yet said nothing at all.

We told ourselves Her beauty drew His gaze; Her gall drew his Hell;
She brought it upon Herself... but the words ring bizarre.
Silent, we watched, as Evening fell;
Broken, we wept for the death of a star.

Keening high notes mark our eyes
with scattered tears that multiply
with every breath we take in vain
and every longing lover's sigh.

Cellos resonate our hearts.
Timpani drums announce our march,
and when choirs sound like screams of pain
I know what it feels like to remain apart.
                            
                                                     Al Coda
                                                Let's try this again,
                                                ere this depression,
                                                this lonely obsession,
                                                eats away at my brain.

Keening high notes mark my eyes,
because I know what it feels like to remain apart.
It's the requiem of a broken heart.
It's the sound of a Lark Ascending
that falls before the symphony's ending;
The caged lonely bird that dies at the start.

What pain it is to live and die;
to close mortal lives with mortal ends.
Recycled lives mimic their predecessors ennui,
and in the end, no one truly struggles; there is no dying cry;
Life leaves at the speed of wind; in a mundane sigh.

And then he brings with him the gentle kiss;
and that sigh passes in reverse across those lips
and extraordinary in her sin,
the ordinary breathes again.

And what blasphemy it is to breathe again
and again that final martyr's breath.
Recycled through lungs that do not open,
seeing with eyes that do not close, though wept
in tears of delicious blood and ***** unearned sweat.

She cries those tears of blood, and they fall to her mouth.
And she screams, but no sound can be heard coming out.
And she writhes, and he holds her in his arms with such tender love.
And she lives her stolen life in a dance macabre and barren of
that ordinarity; that beautiful mundane comfort that brought her such redoubt.

And he holds her, sharing in her pain and loss.
He knows the worth of a life long past its expiration date.
But he cannot condone himself to suffer alone on his lonely cross,
so he kisses her again, sharing that martyr'd gift, hoping his hunger will sate.
But it never is.

So they continue their dance, and give all they can give.
And they share in their duality; the finality of their lonely breath.
He aches for the piety of a life unlived;
She weeps for a visit from an angel of death.

Times are tough. Just a puff. One moment of despair.
Just a hair on a razor's edge. Just one step off heaven's ledge;
I'll dangle, before my wings
smoke
and fall from my back.
Just a puff.
Wings are for saps.

("And it's done," he whispers. "Too late to turn back.")
One failure is unconscionable to the voice in my ear.
There's time yet for that.
There's time yet for that.
My mantra reminds me of that will that I lack.

I am a falcon for you, my love.
The wren may sing; The lark may try
his hand at the heavens; The dove
may coo, but for you? I will dive
                                steep, like falling,
                                deep, like what's calling
                    me to
                                L
                            ­      E
                                     A
                                        P through this sky so blue...

                                Weep when we say "I do".

                                          I am a falcon, love,
                                 but I'll D
                                               I
                                                (V)
           ­                                        E
                                                     only for you.
                                                    If you ask me to; But speak fast.
                                                   The sky's forever far away and above.
                                                          ­But before my dive takes me past,
                                                           I can say this to you at least; at last,    
                                                           My dearest,
                                                        ­   My only,
                                                          T­he sky's forever far away and above,
                                                          ­But for me heaven lives in your eyes.
                                                           ­     I saw you and  
                                                           ­                            fell
                                                                ­                            in
__________­____________________­____________________­_______

Is heaven content?
Through pious tears, we see truth.
Demons do not weep.

Words are just words.
Though they move with a flow
to match the rivers of my soul.

Though they bend like my bow.
Though they showcase it all:
The love. The hurt.
They're just words.

Though they sing like my strings,
though they can be sung; they sing
hollow;

My strings and my bow
prove to me words are words.
Why then, do these phrases
showcase my soul?

My violin is my muse,
and I know it seems obtuse
to say that words are just words.
But I wish I could play for you all.

Then you'd see my soul
in crescendo...
                     Not simply this piece of the whole.

Today, I bled a little more.
Tomorrow I'll likely bleed again.
Such is the daily living chore
that life has become.
Such is the cursing crimson roar
of a fear of being done.
But what's to fear, I wonder?
Should I fear what's yet to come?

If I died tomorrow, I would go, I think where go all.
I would walk in Heaven's winding hall, or burn in pits below.
It matters little, if one is asked to be the avatar
of all that scriptures blithely claim;
A life well lived is a reward well bought, but what eternity can match a gift
so lovely and profane?

How can I be called a blackguard?
How can I be ****** to Hell?
If mortal sin is so ephemeral as an errant, earnest thought?
Was Faust so very wrong to sell
               something so heavy and cheaply bought?

I take a deep breath in, full of nicotine and safety blankets.
I know it's killing me slowly, but the relief comes fast.
And like the laughter of family at a Christmas banquet,
or the sound of my song on the radio as I drive to work,
it's just that little extra shove; that tiny smirk;
I don't need to feed the habit; I don't need it to last.

So, if you see me hugging my ethereal comfort food to my lips,
Don't condescend to give me ****
for the puff that I take, for the way that I self medicate.
It's a moment's release from a lifetime of hates.
I take a deep breath in, full of nicotine and safety blankets,
and briefly the pain, like the smoke, dissipates.

Subtle melody,

Wrack my body. Let me see the Springtime's sunny day.
The wind was once my muse, but now my music's gone away.
Ease the sting of thumbscrews;
cut through weary moods of black and grey.
Where once fingers danced and called the wind,
now those hands can't hold a violin
aloft over my heretic's heart,
and broken fingers cannot play.

The wind will sing no pagan songs upon these broken strings.
Where once I was the prince,
now in sorrow, crown your king!
Fingers once waltzed with the wind,
but through jealous glances
of bitter men,
No song again is ever ushered in.
The sky will never sing
again.

I'm tired, and this lonely night
has conspired to make me write.

I'll pour my heart in reds and blacks
upon the rug, and watch you sneer
at the mess I've made. And I'll hug
close the pen, as it cuts into my veins
and hacks a queer line upon the page,
until to sleep's embrace my mind will recede
relieving me of this earnest, bleeding need;

This lonely night demands I write,
but I fear I've not enough ink tonight to do the deed.

April blossoms bless my ears,
as she sings of falling leaves and snow.
Summer lives in every utterance;
Every note fulfils my soul.

Fairgrounds on the meadow glade.
Cloudless blue, and the green below...
I see it all behind her eyes; The skies
are Springtime when I hear those notes.

Vivaldi claims that seasons change,
and begin with falling leaves and snow.
When she sings, why then is it Spring?
The leaves fall fast, but the blossoms fall slow
in time with her voice, and my heart so aglow.

When the sun died, we shared the last moment's delight.
And God surely lied, if he said that moment was right.

We both knew, though I felt it the more;
The chill in the air, the dying of the light.
She whispered sad words;
Shed sad tears that fell like stars through the night.
And red lines marked their descent from her eyes.

We held each other, though I held tighter yet;
And as the air chilled our crystalline breath,
She whispered laments;
Cried bitter for what joy was not to be.
Our wings were spread, but the wind was cold death,
and in cruel felicity,
it disallowed us our flight. We would never be free.
I closed my eyes.

I thought of the sun.
Icarus had in mind the kindest of ends;
to burn; to blaze; in a pyre so bright.
But to freeze in a daze, so mired in night;
With no luminescence nor warmth to ease our chill plight.
With no heat to dry the moisture that leaked from our eyes.

Together, we thought we would be able to fight.
But it was not to be so.
Forever, we vowed; unto the dying of the light.
We died in each other's arms; but cold and alone.

And our martyr'd tears froze into stars, and they relit the skies.

"Forgive me, Lord, for I have sinned."
I whisper to the empty halls by holy candle's light.
The stones of the church are cold on my bare knees,
like my bare heart, bared before you: My brother. My knight.
My Lord to Shepard me in the darkness. "Guide me from the night..
Hallowed be thy name, forgive me my transgressions in your sight."
I whisper again, and beg for my trespasses retribution or salvation;
I've stopped caring which came my way long ago, though I'm contrite.

"You see... Lord... I've failed in many ways. I'm not the brother or son
that I need to be. I've lost my path, if not my faith, and my only consolation
now are my tears, my cigarettes, and my shattered heart's remaining love.
Forgive me for the harm I've done, though I know my prayers are not enough.
I know I don't deserve it, but by grace of God above,
I hope to be a better man, instead of this drawn out sin my life's become..."

And by the altar, I cry.
And my bare knees and bared heart are by this time cold,
frozen by uncaring flagstones, and by your love that you withhold.
Sinners go to Hell below, that's what Sister Mary told
me when I was young and full of light,
and innocent and oh so bold,
and when in my heart I didn't have so much fright,
and such a raging fire that burns so cold,
in sadness and felicity from the grasp of the Devil in my soul.

But for all my faith, and for all your love,
I'm still going to rage
and spit
and claw
and fight,
even when I know that my side's not near in the right,
and even when my heart is stained and uncontrolled,
So I kiss the cross and wish my hopes for a better life goodnight.
"Thanks for listening, Jesus." I whisper, but in my sinner's heart so cold,
I wonder... Can he hear me? Or am I, as I feel it now, alone?

She dreams in scarlet, of far away lands;
Of heroes muscled, impeccably dressed.
She dreams of a charming Renaissance's man,
and murmurs sweet nothings into my chest.
Her perfect lips quiver; red as her face.

Fan blades mock me as I stare into space.

She dreams of torn bedposts with shattered frames,
Broken by passion released uncontrolled.
She moans in her sleep and whispers a name.
My lips start to quiver, matching her own.
That name gifts my ears such discordant tones.

Were I its owner, my heart might be whole.

Slowly, my pulse commences to waver.
I ask, fearing what answers might portend..

                         If I were to move, perchance to wake her,
                         would she regret her dulcet dreaming's end?

My life's going to bits, but you people make me smile.
That's all that really matters, when I think about it.
Also, I'm a bit of a bibliophile,
and I don't want inactivity to make my poetry sh*t.

I think I'll stay a while.

(Don't) go to war, my mother begged with wet eyes.
Your (family) country needs you. It will be your destiny (Demise.)

                  I took up my pack, shined my boots, shaved my head.
                                         Two years down the line,
I'll be home
                                                           ­                               I'll be dead.
                              We went into the killing ground,
Got the go ahead.
                                                         ­                        Bunkered down.
Fired away.
                                                          ­                       Hit the ground.
Served the flag.
                                                          ­                       Burned it down.
                    And in the middle of the field, there stood a soldier
                         And my (his) mortar took him  (me) in the shoulder,
and I whispered
                                                       ­                          And I whispered,

See, Mom?
                                                           ­                        I'm sorry, Mom...
I was right.
                                                         ­                          You were right.

                            And in the end, no matter who was right,

I came home.                                                           ­       I Died alone.

                            *There's a dead soldier in the ground,
                                            a grieving mother,
                                              a widowed wife.

Thin wisps of rain smoke
whisper through the air above.
Red sparks paint the sea.

There's a catch in my breath like
the catch in your step from
the wound. "Where'd you get it?" I
asked you when I was five.

There's a hole in my chest like
the hole in your leg from
the wound. "It was a gift." I
didn't understand when you said it. I was five.

There's cold marble planted in the grass like
the countertops you bought from
Ikea. "Not really what it says on the box, is it?" you said. I
understand now. I was five,
but now at twenty I understand
the wound. And the box. And the gift.
The one I didn't appreciate nearly enough when I was five.

"Ain't it the way!" Your catchphrase, engraved. Delivered with a grin.
It would read so much better coming from your lips.
Those lips, on that contented smile, on that face,
in that box, now cold like that granite it's closed now within.

I'm not in love...                                                    not even a little
  but                 I want                                        to be                       in
love so                    badly.                       My heart                    aches
to feel                                that kiss; that breath                       of life
   that                                 we poets call love in                     an awed
       whisper.                                                         ­                 But...
                Love
                    ­   refuses                                                          ­      The hole
                                to                          ­                                   in              my
                                   show                                                             ­  heart
                                            her face. So my heart                        is
                                 ­                has a hole in it.                              a
                                                                ­                                         Q
                                                               ­                                           u
                    ­                                                                 ­                      e
                                                               ­                                             s
                  ­                                                                 ­                          i
                                                               ­                                              o
                                                               ­                                                               
                                                                ­                                             n.

                                            Where are you, Love?

Knowledge from my eyes.
Nightfall. I understand yours.
Drops of ruby red.

I miss the taste of alcohol mixed with your sweat,
and the feel of your skin on mine as we first touched.
I can't bring myself to mourn the day we first met;
I can't bring myself to forget the way your skin blushed.

Our bodies were like puzzle pieces that badly entwined;
we didn't quite fit unless we forced it, and then the picture was wrong.
Still there was a beauty in the mistakes born of whisky and rhyme.
When we called it quits... There was regret when we both said goodbye.
There was regret when I went to your bed to give "us" one more try.
There was rage when I found that you weren't alone.

The rain fell hard, spitting
on the hallowed granite wall.
It fell on her too, sitting
in her fatal fetal sprawl.

Her coat was torn, and her head hung low;
the rain stung her knees and eyes.
“What a surprise…” she whispered, slow
in her speech and ashen in her guise.

“I didn’t think I’d find your name…”
Her voice broke, though none can know
whether from pride or from shame.
“I guess you listened, when they told you to go.”

“You idiot! When you’re done, find
me. That’s what I said to-”
Another break; her throat constricted.
She barely breathed, “Why me? Why you?”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“They sent you, but it’s all my fault.”
The rain reaches her lips, then,
yet those drops taste of salt.

You see past my smile.
Tears reflect eternity.
Together, we learn.

I remember when we were friends and
we could just sit and listen to music in your room.
The Beatles want to hold your hand,
but I thought Not nearly so much as I do.

When we weren't dancing to old grooves,
or laughing about the newest fad,
I'd see a glimpse in your eyes of the true
sadness that you had; Those eyes were so **** sad.

That's where it began, I think.
The sadness is what made you beautiful to me.
I tried to hold your hand, that night,
but you pulled it in horror away from me.

Though the way you recoiled from my touch alarmed my soul,
I wasn't surprised to know. Still, it hurt, I'll admit,
it hurt more than words could describe for me to know
you for you: a beautiful puzzle piece for which I was not the right fit.

I remember the days, though they seem so long ago.
I remember when we were such fast friends.
When we weren't, (I wasn't surprised to know)
that's where our story dies bitter; So it ends.

"Found you!" she squeals,
My laugh assaults her senses as I bend my legs out of the tree.
Jerry thinks she's talking to him, and swings out from his own branch.
His feet hit the leafy floor, and she smirks. The smirk is all she needs.
"Found you too, I suppose, Jerry," her voice is the melody of youth,
it rings with games of hide and seek, and the freedom that only children know.

"Found you..." I whisper sadly.
Her tears assault my senses, and I realize that Mike broke up with her.
Jerry thinks Mike is a decent guy, but her makeup tells me otherwise.
Her tears hit the bathroom floor, and she sobs into my shoulder.
My shoulder is all she needs right now, and I give it gladly.
"I just need a moment." She pleads. Her tears will ruin my tuxedo. I realize I don't care. I nod.

Found you, I think. The speech is in ten minutes, but here she is in the park.
I suppose that's what love does to a person. Time becomes meaningless.
Jerry whispers something in her ear, and she giggles, and kisses him.
She thinks her speech is at ten, I realize. Not in ten.
What would she do without me?
I break about fifty traffic laws getting her to the audition.

"Found you!" She scolds. Her veil muffles the reprimand, and she grins.
Her beauty assaults my senses, and I clear my thoughts.
Jerry thinks it's odd that a dude was picked as the Maid of Honor, but...
Her tears mar the lace of her veil, and now it's my turn to scold.
"Tears aren't what you need right now" I joke. "Today isn't the day for that."
"I'm just so happy..." She whispers. I nod, and I smile, and I take my place.
They say their vows, and she turns to him.

"Found you." she whispers, and I know my job is done.
I suppose that's what love does to a person.

He stares out into the darkness and the surf, waiting
     on a rocky chair molded from the side of the cliff... just waiting.
          His feet swing back and forth over the expanse, creating
          small showers of pebbles as they fall careening against the ledge.
     Theirs is the only motion to be seen, yet he does not look down, but out.
His eyes don't blink, and his lip is stiff, and his heart does not pound, but whispers a soft staccato beat into his veins, numbing his senses to the cold.
A ship appears on the horizon, and its gull white sails stand sharp
against the contrast of the night blackened sky, and in that moment
               his heartbeat stops...
                                                   but only for a moment;
                           for just that one moment.
Then in anguish it resumes, and its desolate beat plays on.
The sails are white, but they bear no red cross marker.
Flags of the wrong shade fly atop the mast, and the sky grows darker
as his feet swing against the cliffside, and his heart whispers consolation;
His heart beats desolation as he waits for another ship to come to harbor.