I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine

Just a whisper.
A simple breeze that passes from your
Soft lips to my willing ear.
A caress of a promise that erupts my skin in flame;
 a cause to my heart's crecendo.

To promise hope, such as a soft creed shall prove.
            I await.

COME, quietly the night, as I lay riddled with perplexity and confounding notions.
In all I have rendered useless, there is still an itch yearning TO be scratched.

Like the beast at the door, or so I thought.
Yes, I must have imagined the howl, calling ME.
I howled to my best ability in return, no avail.
What beast would call to THIS?

I must lay to rest these evening daydreams.
These late NIGHT machinations of my simple mind.
To wake in the morning and bear in heart and mind that no beast is howling this name.

Be of my skin.
On it, in it. Reveling the revelations of
Three decades of me.
Touch my soul underneath.
Bare my flayed heart, press yours upon it.
Add quickened pulse.
Steam the windows,
Drip with the salty sweat.
Rhythmically dance to the slowest song.
Feel as the heat causes lesser friction;
As two glide, the sparks fire, higher rise.
Ignite.
Burning the slow burn.
The release is deep, from the darkest inner core. Singing, singing.
Gathering all, the soul rushes to infuse.
Cataclysmic bliss.
The world is amiss, momentarily, as the heart slams into its cage.
Fighting to be free, slowly it becomes weary. Slow, slowly.
The world is righted.
Still yet the cage is quick with bows; bends.
Eyes open to eyes.
The world is there.

You've been of my skin.
You see me.
Your eyes bury me.
Eyes close. Mind slows.
Heart full.
Arms hold, entangled.
Sleep.

I have this box, it is beautiful.
Covered in diamonds, sapphires in all hues, silver handles and golden latches.
It's bones are made from compounded parts; thread-remnant from broken hearts,
the leftover feathers from elation,
the glass from being shattered.
Glued together with the ache of both pain and yearning.

It is beautiful on the outside, but inside is where I keep my broken things.

Thinking hard about you
I got on the bus
and paid 30 cents car fare
and asked the driver for two transfers
before discovering
that I was
alone.