This morning is a picture postcard of our first ****.
Sweaty and enclosed
a symbolic fan dawdles slowly
over our youthful bodies;
Velvet with electricity.

I can still feel the starch strength of your hair,
read the invitation on your lips
(the only novel written solely for me)
and ignore the gooseflesh as I recall the magic of
your perfume from the deepest, darkest past.

Your mystery was forged out of the shade
which followed early mornings,
cool like gold covered ice,
sometimes we drank the Sun's wine
from the Sun's cups
and your ******* were bared to the sleeping city
pale and luminous as two alien moons
while overhead the early birds sang their song.

Now you live in the future,
as so many others do,
and I am left here;
with a faded blue rose
who's perfume has fled and now smells of old velvet.

It’s that addictive conversation you reiterate. It’s the knife cut staining the cutting board. It’s the black bruise that keeps spreading. It’s the crack in the sidewalk followed by the fall you forgot to brace. It’s the deadline missed. It’s the “this-not-that”. It’s the hour passed that you couldn’t afford to lose. It’s the darkness under the bed. It’s the crack in the ceiling. The creak in the step. The leaky faucet. The sour milk. It’s the abandoned dog’s cry. It’s the forgotten wallet on the subway train. It’s the stand up on a blind date. It’s the buying a carton of broken eggs. It’s the “I’m-sorry-I-forgot”. It’s the gum on the bottom of stilettos. It’s the cigarette smoke invading your lungs. It’s the bald man lurking around the corner.  It’s the two yellow eyes amongst the sickening darkness. It’s the disease in your mothers breast. It’s the crisp brown leaves on your house plant. It’s the neglected number on a misplaced napkin. It’s the loose *****. The pull in your sweater. The miscommunication. The jammed index finger. It’s the first time and wishing it was your last. It’s the promised call that never came. It’s the clenched fist as you suffer the hit. It’s the threatening epidemic. It’s the “it-will-take-time” which you never took. It’s the adhesive fly paper you can’t shake off.
And it’s all of this,
Till you grasp it’s none of this.
It’s the muggy sickness found in the depths of your stomach.
It’s scorching guilt
And it’s eating you, swallowing you whole
It’s suffocating
It’s enduring
It's guilt everlasting

A romantic believes in six senses
Taste, touch, hearing, sight, and smell
So they know the smell of a rose
And touch, a warmth in the cold
Hearing, a voice soothing in any pitch
Taste, a kiss
Sight, a beauty that may just last the ages
All of these can be between any two and perish at the end of one
But the sixth is not physical
It is not *** but passion
Not human but soul
Not relationship but transcending
It is not borrowed or bought or born but found
It is love existing and unexplainable
There at once and always
Beyond mere ashes and dust

Seasons change,
But Autumn ,
She is a beauty,
Her trees are fragile and painted with
Color
The fragility of the leaves are quite elegant,
The scents and spices fill the air,
Autumn's air is warm and sweet and
Fulfilling,
When I walk outside
My spine receives a tingle from the brisk air,
I walk down the pavement staring at the beautiful leaves before my feet,
The fallen leaves remind me of lost souls and
The change of colors reminds me that humans are changing themselves,
The fragility and changes makes me wonder ever so much

he likes forgetting
good things
bad things
because to him
it’s all bad
because it’s all
not good enough

he keeps himself away
like some secret
that could destroy
the world
and
you have to wonder
if he knows how silly
he sounds

he’s voiceless but
he loves to scream
enjoying the cacophony
because he doesn’t
believe he can make
music

he’ll show up dead probably
not in the ground, but somewhere
like a run-down apartment
or a happy family of four
and you’ll know because
he only frowns
between when the drink
hits his lips
and
when the drink
hits his mind
like sleeping gas

he’s not worried about it though
he says there’s nothing to be worried about
that you shouldn’t worry, that this is the way
that things are going to play out
no matter if he’s loved
if he’s hated
if he succeeds
or fails
if all his dreams come true
or all his nightmares

it’s time, he says,
to make peace with it
and if you would please
just leave him alone
to feel alive
without
guilt.

Im sitting on the edge of a life I used to lead,
all I want is her hand to lead me free.
I am not sure, I do not know
But I believe in love so its time to go
Into the dark and I must say its an aweful lot like the month of may
When the hands keep reaching
And the fingers keep grabbing
All I did was let them keep stabbing
I am not strong, mind is weak
And my body soft
Iv naught to speak
But of my love,  im lion atg heart
Her hands in mine, iv learned the art
Of life and love who can say
What will be at the end of days?
But of my soul, and by my breath
I will love her until my death

I am not perfect. I make mistakes.

I am genuine and forgiving.
I wonder what God thinks of us as people.
I hear the sound of my sister singing to sold out crowds.
I see the glass as always half full.
I want to make a difference in someone’s life.
I am genuine and forgiving.

I pretend that I am stronger than I actually am.
I feel my heart swelling with regret.
I touch the memories I try to close out.
I worry about the soldiers fighting for our freedom while we lay at home in our warm beds.
I cry that moments in time are gone forever.
I am genuine and forgiving.

I understand that life doesn’t last forever.
I say that I am working to achieve a better future.
I dream about war, peace, and love.
I try to make people smile when they’re having a bad day.
I hope one day for a cure for diabetes.
I am genuine and forgiving.