I see how white light startles.
I snapped a pic and she spun in circles.
She wanted a photograph
to cover her mother's epitaph,
so she could have a laugh.

She smoked to get away -
but this isn't what'd she say,
exhaling, "All we are is carbon
and a lack of empathy."

We blended into hues of
microwave dinners
and church alters.
I used to tell her to go
just to halt her.

We prayed to get away -
but that's not what we'd say,
whispering, "Help us be more
than carbon and a lack of empathy."

We were fugitives tonight.
Fugitives
of light;
The blink of a window
drawing naught but dusk.
We grind against fate,
crossed our fingers and flew
from what we are, were-- might be.
Closed the peak whole
lest it should dawn
and glid doomed,
to some place nice.

Sunlight reaches your eyes,
to flicker,
forever rest or die.

Your air is of dandelion dreams
whispered in the distant past.
All smudged into
a dusty closet where they
roam endlessly.

cartographer of my heart
there are days when I will not be easy to read
I will hold myself upside down and backwards
buried beneath bruised knuckles and cheap fear

and yet late at night I find you saying
“you still make sense to me”
leaving landmarks on my skin
signs that say “you are here"
and here
and here

trace the land lines in my palms
and know they will always guide you home

Most times,
I live on the pause;



the lingering,
between what you say,
                    and what I hear.
The livid moment of incessant
existence when I take from life,
the meaning within moments.
The weight of a second, drawn
like blood,
from the bare atmosphere.

Time flies little girl,
but now away to bed.
Look at the sky and all the lights,
it all lies ahead.

Time flies! Little Girl
but now away to bed
see how it moves and shifts and tunes—
you better hurry up.

Life flies,
Little Girl no more.
The stars, they shine. But
your shine is looking dull.

Girl,
in my head
pretend cranes hover
over our heads
ready to take us
to the sky.

I never thought you were flawless
*I thought you were perfect

I think we are freezing
in castles made of ice.

In a stalemate of frigid disconnect
from the obscure glance of one person into space .
For connection, to anything but in heat,
is null.

We both reside in doomed cubes
of store bought freeze packs. Until, a single rub
sanctions my day to the friction of your eyes
and our feet against the ground
fracture the isothermal lines, our connect and our
divide

Constant contortion in puddles of time,
the havoc of equalized warmth
wreaks the kingdom of loneliness.
And isotherms becomes the ultimate
agents of demise.