Us as cracked pots,
with a possibility to be fixed
as fine and flawed

The geology of our clay:
dirt will behave as dirt,
rare earth as rare earth

With time it transmutes
to something new,
shot with old veins when fired

The new *** fragile,
prone to drops and knocks,
desperate to hold known water

The ache
The tearing in my stomach
The yearning for something that isn't food
Not food for thought
But something that fills me up
Thick raindrops that sink beneath your skin and into your bones
Being soaked all the way through into your heart
Feeling that electricity that nobody else can spark
The weight of water on your face
Pricking your eyes
and running its way down your hair
All of it
All that love and mystery and deepness
that's being in love with being alive

Sure the stars are pretty
But
Look
At
The
Night.
The deep blackness of the never-ending pit that is sky
The entirety of its beauty
You expect the night to frame the stars delicately
But if I were the night sky
I'd swallow them whole

Give me a love for living
And I shall make myself whole
There will be no more more broken pieces
Only chips
Only cracks
But that does not make me any less whole
For a window that is cracked is still a window

You know there's more.  
There's always more.
He doesn't say them.
I don't say them.
Somehow we still manage to say all and nothing.
Each relying on our intuition to translate.
Both depending on the conveyance to be clear.

I hope it is.
Does he hope it is?
****...confusion

I hear it though.
The questions in the questions.
I think he hears the answers in the answers.
Always this language of in between.

In between....
Star crossed.
That's what it is.
Some ethereal cosmic fate.

Reason, reason...
Fingers tapping as I think on it....
Because life is not meant to be *******
Because you are meant to feel and be inspired
Because you are...
Because.....
Because........

Because sometimes it's just nice to have someone out there in all of existence that pays attention to the way you like your coffee for no good reason other than it's the way YOU like your coffee.

Because if I asked him the time and date of whatever
Or how many blueberries were in the box sitting on the table that one time we ate breakfast together...how many years ago now??
And he remembers.
And memory is all we're left with
When everything else is gone

You can be remembered for so many big things
But he remembers how I take my coffee
And that little tiny thing
Means there are so many more not tiny things
That aren't being said, they're just known
In the in between

In your past life,
A sweet coffee bean!!
My mornings cannot start without you.
24/10/2020

It´s difficult to love when we are down,
It´s like having nowhere to sleep,
We just pretend that we have an option.
Under the bridge or on the garden bench.

Like dust, we rise a couple seconds
At the passage of the unknown
Anxiously aiming to be oxygen
In someone´s lungs
But we fall painfully slow on the ground.

Like smoke of a fire
Or fog we have an effect
A principle of being
But we just can't feel it

A cause
Or a mere colatteral accident in life?
A real pain
Or nature´s oblivion...?

Rain is dramatic, but short lived-
storms half-hearted.
Sun shines strong and low
through art-work cloud, and
finger-print-blooms rock and sway
on a whispering green-leaf sea.

October 2020 is the hot-sweet-tea
left outside my room, after the row I caused
when I was 15.