Every poem I write is of you.

I write of your chiseled jaw and cheeks.

I write of your collarbones, from whose depth I could drink wine.

I write of the bed of stars you laid me down upon.

I write of your golden skin under the soft white sunlight.

I write of your eyes which remind me of the moon.

I write of your spine which resembles the solar system.

I write of my love and of my man, whose entire soul resembles the composition of the universe.

And I can only hope I am a galaxy within it..

(i. r)

It's funny how time changes a person;
it's even funnier when it doesn't.

I left you and you left me and I thought
if I were to ever come back, we'd be strangers.

But we're not; it should feel like we've easily
spent lifetimes apart and even though things have happened

You're very much you, and I am me
and we're still somehow us.

I tell myself I've moved on
but that doesn't explain
why I go out of my way
to avoid a place,
wondering if you'll show up
when I find myself there anyways.

-Believe it
-Trust it
-Nurture it
-Feed it
-Love it

These poems do not live: it's a sad diagnosis.
They grew their toes and fingers well enough,
Their little foreheads bulged with concentration.
If they missed out on walking about like people
It wasn't for any lack of mother-love.

O I cannot explain what happened to them!
They are proper in shape and number and every part.
They sit so nicely in the pickling fluid!
They smile and smile and smile at me.
And still the lungs won't fill and the heart won't start.

They are not pigs, they are not even fish,
Though they have a piggy and a fishy air --
It would be better if they were alive, and that's what they were.
But they are dead, and their mother near dead with distraction,
And they stupidly stare and do not speak of her.