Sometimes I dig for it.
The lost fragment of my hips,
The way they swayed in front of your lips.
Now lost among the shredded portrait of our kiss.

I shove my fingertips into the night,
looking among the velvet moon and starlight
Between his long legs, underneath her tongue's site
Hoping to taste that bittersweet comfort of pain and flight.

To savor the honesty in the style I loved you
the silent mockery of poetic words desperately glued
to the confused pupils of your green eyes which unconsciously threw
those words of commitment under sly smiles and hidden hands tracing my tattoos.

But sometimes I find it
after a couple of beers and a sip of smoke.
Do you remember the rhythm those humid nights provoked?
They infected my brain with wanderlust and the feeling when time chokes
on whatever logic a perfect second shouts at the unawareness of a lover's hope.

The last time we spoke was in early hours
Full of impersonal inquiry.
The return of encompassing doubt
Brings back images birthed from tragic experience.

Trailing blood lines lead to the southern coasts
And I begin to doubt the intention of my late inclination.
Another lover unable to contain my heart
Another running away from the abyss of ugly honesty.
It's all very overwhelming and too much to bear.

I will return to live in the well of my brain
And dream of the ocean.

No one will hear this mournful siren trapped in the earth,
For I have picked the most hidden tree to observe from my depth.
Even if they traverse the infinite path,
Only those who bare insanity will look away from the branches of knowledge
And find these pupils in the infernal darkness.
But my heroes never know how to temper these depths,
Either falling to their death
Or painfully giving up with rightful indignation.

The waves of my thought deafen this soul
To the courageous explorers of my immortal caves.
Leave me to the well of my brain, darling.

The early hours bleed into dawn
As I think on the embarrassment I feel in love.
I have much more to understand
And you don't deserve my naivety.
I decide to close my eyes
And force your departure.

Finally, I can sleep with the ease of accepted solitude.

The foggy harbor buries itself into the bricks,
misty fingers make their way into thick brain threads,
causing invisible skyscrapers to erupt from natural terrain.

Lackadaisical loneliness producing nothing but infertile hands;
You are wasting the precious prayer of earths' life in your lungs,
while saltwater slips into the crevice of your sorrowful joy.

The masks begins to bleed and life carves itself into your skin.

Nothing can be done to stop this carpenter of time,
for even if mortal scalpels disguise,
the knowledge of dying will coat your soul.

This day holds humidity in my heart.
The temporary return of familiar love
left my broken outlook painted in contentment
and pushed healing hope into my lips,
yet you,
who refuses to give romance,
who tramples my confidence in mud,
who haunts my midnight chorus,
you return to my heart in the overcast cold of the salty Chesapeake.

and I cry and I cry and I cry
hating you for making me reread old moleskins
to realize that perhaps it was never me you loved,
to realize that perhaps my body was destroyed in folly,
to realize perhaps you just played a game with us all,
and I simply claimed you with the loudest song.

******* for pumping in my veins.
let me completely love another
or come find me.

the insanity you commit
pushes me into the midnight abyss
and my pieces began to fall between the cracks
and the hopeful glue melts into the inky black.

this ghost hasn't left my unconscious lungs.
I know I am almost done,
but the rhythm of your death is the worst part to feel.

There is a storm brewing on the horizon.
The shadow covets my harbor,
unimpressed with all the shelter I have sought to avoid it's black cloud claws.
This sickening frame of perspective
soaks up the sorrowful rain;
convinced there is nothing outside of painful growth.

The thunder fills up any space for other thought
and I am overcome with the angry vibrations of particular nature.
Other roots sing out to the rain with acceptance and understanding.
I look to their placement and try to pray alongside the healthy,
but just as contentment ascends past my roots
lightening thrusts it's late night epitomes deep into the soil.

Oh, song of few fragile petals,
although you have been over pruned by unconscious hands,
you are not of that love.
Containing so much more than black eyes and regretted births;
remember the newness of every day.

Keep repeating those memorized murmurs of broken poets,
but keep the beauty of communication
let the mesmerizing misery fall back into the sky.