crisp pages
indented fom my pen's point,
whisper beneath the dry skin
of my cracked palm.
they flutter together,
butterfly wings,
and weave together a time
so melodious.

boy, do I miss
you
everything about
you
when you kissed
me
I felt supernovas
exploding and
you
left bruises staining
my
neck that
I
never want
to heal.

when our metal collided,
forming a beautiful mess of flames and exchanged paint,
they dragged my unrecognizable hunk of meat,
fire still dancing on my skin,
to a blinding, sterilized building smelling of alcohol and copper
usually reserved for bullets in the chest and praying mothers.

they pricked my arms and legs and chest and everywhere in between.
never was there a moment
where cool palms were not smoothing down
the few strands of hair still attached to my scalp.

howls never failed to fill the night-
every night-
and my father joined the wolf pack
once they whispered
"we have some bad news."

their methods had failed to see my body perfect again.
but what they didn't know
is that instead of dripping recycled blood
down the tubes jammed in the holes decorating my skin,
they should have poured words
in to my running river veins.

I have turned tides
when they told me all I could do was drown

With each passing day
spent within these walls,

I start to wonder
will I have any creativity left at all?

Or will it simply be driven out
by all of this sadness?

Allowing this mundane lifestyle
to siphon off my madness.

This is only our second encounter,
but yet here we are,

entranced in conversation,
shutting down the bar.

Perhaps I'll fall too quickly,
all rationale forgotten.

Ignoring all the warning signs
to "proceed with caution."

But if hanging on your every word
is something I'm meant to resist,

I think I'll just continue my journey
into this beautiful descent.

A thought on which tone my coffee would have this morning.
Or who on the street would have my whole attention – think about the stranger before I fall asleep and get revealed to what myself does when the shell does not count.

A thought on the distance to the eyes I sit under. I would like to love you running out of all options. The cry over the city surrounding the crowd, come home in the early hours painted on clocks.

A thought on the need of all the driving around and the sun melting my face. Figures that open and close their mouths – I am listening by looking.
The Later is the Now and there is no exit.