I woke up in the dark
Early in the morning.
I felt the hum along my skin that meant
You were next to me.
It was quiet
And in your sleep you were breathing hard.
I could feel the tension in you.
I'd never seen anyone so out of breath in a dream.
You sounded scared. You felt scared,
Next to me.
I opened my eyes, careful, and your half-shadowed brow was creased with...
Worry?
Fear?
Pain?
I couldn't be sure. Maybe it was nothing, but...
I felt for you, in that second.
You looked so young. You looked so hunted.
I almost shut my eyes again, unwilling to invade upon it-
Sleep is such a vulnerable thing, such a private thing.
I almost woke you with a kiss
And forced you to know I was there.
What if you were suffering?
What if you were terrified?
I almost woke you, right then,
And disrupted that strange, innocent rest-that-wasn't-restful.
I almost woke you because I couldn't take it anymore.
The way you were gasping air like you were dying.
I reached for you, indecisive,
Fingers hovering above your shoulder as if you were a flame I was getting too close to.
But instead
I steadied myself, pulled back.
And I took your hand, real soft,
And I just held it,
Making little circles with my thumb on your palm.
And I breathed with you,
And then slower, calmer, deeper,
In my head saying, "Shh, it's okay."
And I sent my love through my fingertips
To yours.
And I stayed like that, just breathing,
Trying to reassure you without you ever knowing it.
And as I did your breath slowed
And the strain left your body bit by bit,
And my heart broke a little
That perhaps I caused that.
That maybe in your head you'd been in pain
And maybe I had helped you breathe a little easier.
And I lay back down, carefully, gently,
And closed my eyes again
And let the warmth of your hand in mine
Comfort me
And the thought that maybe I had comforted you
Sustain me.

she'll walk off
and you'll walk behind,
you feel like a man
and see everything in soft focus exposure
and her walking ahead, timid and feeling triumphant.
this was your first kiss
and not your last kiss
but your most important kiss;
the foundation kiss,
the scaffold kiss,
cathedral columns holding up the whispering gallery of this kiss.

or did you walk off
and she walked behind,
did she feel like a woman,
soft, warm, and kind seeing everything is a hard focus exposure?
that was her second kiss,
not her last kiss
and not her most important kiss;
it was a mill stone kiss,
a grist lipped ground-down-again kiss,
a motel-hotel-roadside chapel of cheap kisses kiss.

Hook the loops of your bag
between your forearm crease,
let it swing not lag
whilst you walk to see your niece.

Your nephew is ill in hospital,
your parents too ill to help out,
your sister is depressed, it's postnatal,
and you've been there from the beginning, throughout.

Those aren't tears, but the effects of the wind
while you walk nervous to see.
******* in your cold coat you’ve thinned,
but no one will notice nor disagree.

As you’re there to help, encourage with wise words,
short bursts of helpful blurbs will
satisfy your sister just enough
for her to get through.

they were nothing more than momentary.
they were like the leaves that rustle by
as you walk the rocky edges of a side street's sidewalk.
they were like the car that cut you off in the middle of the city.
they were the goosebumps you got when
a random cool breeze touched the edges
of your bare arms that weren't covered
by your light blanket on a warm June night.
but, oh, we're they genuine.
their love was intense and internally satisfying for
all bystanders who were privileged with
witnessing of poetic couple.
their love ended as quickly as it began
and never again would the two be.
they'd cross paths time and time again at local cafes
and from afar they'd lock eyes in the crowded subway tunnels
but after their last lip lock,
never again did their lips meet each other's,
never again did their bodies intertwine
under sheets that almost lit up in pretty flames
due to their unusual spark.
both would never again find a
cosmic, storm-like, life-altering love
like they once created together.
they both lived separate lives and
they both died separate deaths that,
regardless of their time apart,
still silently shared an unbreakable bond,
sealed with the unforgettable memories of
their meeting;
the meeting of two souls connecting
in such a way
even Fate grew envious of. t
hey both quietly lived
and then quietly died,
always
determined to still
meet once again behind
Heaven's gates.

I think it was written by men
That God loves us all
In terror of the unspoken thought
That if this brutal world is, in fact,
Divinely planned
To the smallest detail
Then god cannot love at all.
It is written that there is a catch-all acceptance,
A safety net support for the human spirit,
In fear of the un-uttered truth
That nobody loves us all
And so we must love each other
One by one
In place of a god
Who has bigger plans than tenderness.

train lines scar them,
the trees decorate them,
slip a red watch around your wrist to hide them
in the commuter rush,
the office dash,
to wet-sidewalk-up-leg rain splash;
she's lost in the swell of New York City
with red wrists, a scissor's nettle rash,
and she'll sleep alone tonight.

Its been 10 months
and I still love you
ive heard you cry
and beg for forgiveness
but none was given
but 10 months later
im still alone
and I still
love you

I was reticent to even call what I did poetry for a long time,
A really long time.
Because I thought poetry must require some more effort than just thoughts.
But then again, I thought my thoughts weren't normal if they contained sweeping metaphors
And I could never say anything deep without sounding like I should be spouting it on a stage.
So I tried the label,
"Poetry".
I'm still not entirely sure it fits snugly.
Some of the poetry I read is far more poetry
Than my poetry.
I've messed around with rhymes and rhythms-
As a "poet" you're apparently supposed to pay attention to those- but...
I have never been one for rules.
Whatever spills out is what I call poetry,
And that makes me feel a bit course, sometimes.
All the quatrains and the forms and the hidden meanings,
I'm supposed to do that, right?
But instead I say exactly what I mean to say,
In a straightforward effort to get the reader to simply feel
What I feel
Because why would I be wasting my time writing
If a feeling didn't compel me to do so?
Is that poetry?
Is that right?
Who knows.
But
I have yet to find a better word for what I do,
So I suppose
"Poetry"
Will have to do.