Sit still beauty,  
Through still life imagery
And the golden light
Caught on silver nitrate,
In half a second forever remembered
In a frame above your bed,
Catching dreams as they leave your head
While you sleep alone at night,
Dreaming of him,
Maybe of me,
Mostly of them,
And how the memories affected,
And drew you into the
Beautiful portrait you are today,
And I can’t help but notice that
Sunlight always hits you in the
Most spectacular of ways.

I used to think
I’d rather have a girl
Love me less
Than not love me at all.
But I’ve since learned
That love’s a glue
And without it
Nothing’s held together,
Nothing’s whole at all.

I viewed our pictures,
Our visual memories,
And felt the chill
On the back of my knees,
of that cold winter morning,
Where the dorms were cold,
and classes cancelled,
and we walked out in the snow,
near knee deep,
and photographed the children playing.
Where we ran into Snowstorm,
Shivering in his sweatpants,
While doing the same as we.
So we drank our whiskey,
warmed by our hot apple cider,
and hot cocoa with schnapps,
While you viewed my photos,
Telling me,
“they’re your best you’ve done,
I love you,
I’m cold, let’s warm up
Like lovers do,
On winter nights.”
And convinced each other
We’d be the ones to hold

One another tight when
Our lives ever got out of hand,
To this cold again,
Together.
And with lights fading,
And buzzes deflating,
At last you told me,
Those pictures weren’t
As good as I meant them to be.

I’d love to find someone worth loving,
But need to find myself worth loving first,
Because I feel I have a long way to go.

Sometimes,
I have feelings.
And sometimes,
They pour out like
A bowl of chicken noodle soup
On on a kitchen table,
When you grab the handles
And it’s still too hot.
So you panic,
Turn, and spill,
And make a mess
Of noodle letters, sauce and
Over boiled vegetables,
With an impossible rhyme scheme
Of mismatched vowels and
Consonants on your kitchen table,
Spelling nothing other than
Failure in the most basic of tasks;
Which makes you wonder,
What’s the point of this
Anyway, to begin with?
Who ever actually
Learned to spell from soup?
I sure as hell didn’t.
My words are my own.
And soup never suited me anyway.

I just pray
The silly words I dictate
Inspire someone new
To write something truly great.

I literally
Do not understand this
Desire to write words,
Sadly,
About things I’m past
In life,
Distant memories,
And how they affect me,
While I’m so on track,
So right in
The left lane of life.
Learned from mistakes
And choices made right.
But I still do,
I still write
About you,
Every single night,
Like a sickness inside
My heart that’s healed
With scar tissue trapping
You inside,
Your memory,
With all the love
And misery I’ve
Held for days,
Months, years,
And I’m sure it’s harsh,
Living there.
So, I’m sorry.