i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body.  i like what it does,
i like its hows.  i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones,and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz
of your electric furr,and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,

and possibly i like the thrill

of under me you so quite new

Morning. Freshly breathing, wet lungs.
I catch a glimpse of you through frosted windows
Shoulders, hair, in profile. Wearing white.
Those hours - just before sunrise, half awake, lucid in the grey;
in those dreams you shy away from my touch,
and stare at me with tawny eyes.
I wish I knew what you were thinking
I wish I could stop checking you're still there.

I linger in our fragility. Knitted cotton hearts.
You're fresh blood in me, you glitter under my skin
Breaking apart in my eyesight  -
Yet I knit poetry out of your lingering fingertips.

Young enough to know
that what they’ll have me
believe of this world
is a shadowy truth at best.
The lesson
in each dancing darkness
on my wall is love, &
we’re nothing but silhouettes
until the lights come on.

For my 2016 writing project, I’ve decided to write a single line of poetry every day for an entire year. Below, is November’s poem. Enjoy!

Thirty-three years old.
A brother lost.
A father fighting on.
A mother standing tall.

I feel brave.
Only death can defeat me.
It nearly did.

Still, I stand.
We all do.

We are like trees in a windstorm.

Life discounts me.
That is its mistake.

We've been to the brink.
We've stared over the cliff.
Edges are nothing to be feared.

Life defined in two parts.
My own personal B.C. and A.D.
Before destroys me.
The next is mine.

With bated breath.
I turn the page.
I begin writing a new chapter.

Much will be said of this time.
It is my beacon of hope.

These hours are mine.

Numbers on a wall,
Each with a purpose.

Let's use this story.
Let's save a soul.
November 3rd can change things.

Just a little more than half
The ration for my little cup.
I cannot say it's empty
But neither is it full.

The wine has been not always sweet
But mostly soothed my soul.
On other days its bitterness
Brought rawness to my throat.

The cup is cracked; it's handle's gone
But still it does not leak.
It holds what life's poured into it
And does not cut my lips

When timidly I lift it up
To sample what I've been given
As my portion in the little cup
That represents my life.
                ljm

It was killing me
To know
That I meant so little to you
But now
It's killing me
To know
That you know that I cared

Pure, white roses,
Surrounding you as I feel your hot air,
Soft, gentle, sweet as you are,
And the hot red on your cheeks as you tired smile,

In the cold degree celcius in this closed space,
You were precious as I hold you tightly in my embrace

We, harvest,
Warped in the colour of your soft hair,
We were in the creamy night full of stars,
My love, let’s enjoy this moment for a longer while.