Our hearts are the same.
They pluck the same tunes,
create the same vibrating frequencies
that we hear as individual notes.
It's the same reason why some songs
touch our insides more than others;
because they contain melodies crafted
from the same instrument that resides inside us.
It's the same reason why some souls
become electric when put together;
because the pretty voice inside your head
is perfectly in sync
with the rhythmic drum beats of my heart.
I can hear it.
It's music to my entity.

They say
writers write with words
poets paint with them.

Finish each other's sentences
and I'll finish you for dinner.

I could write about you in depth
but what good is putting something
as infinitely gray as you into
constricting black and white letters.

"How does it feel..."
I wouldn't know
I cannot feel

That's where he's been hanging around lately.
I hear their coffee is decent.
Half and half, a spoonful of sugar, and a dash of shameful regret.
He orders his eggs over easy with a side of fresh apologies.
The scratchy booth seat squeaks merciless obscenities at him
as he shifts uncomfortably
because of his aching back and aching conscience.
If I were to pass by him at a diner, I doubt I would even recognize him.
Guilt tends to deform the appearance, and derange the soul.

Nobody knows about the time
I once carved the shape of a butterfly
etched it onto my skin
right where thigh meets waist...
In the end,
reincarnation got it wrong.
It was a simple mistake
because I was always meant to be a butterfly
for this life
and all the lives before
and all the lives to come.
I wouldn't mind so much
if being a human meant
I could still fly and be free.
And drift from place to place.