I wouldn't call it a fear
of falling in love

But how this feels is like
A child's drawing of infinity
But he tells you
Actually it is two people kissing

And I want to cut the image in half
so I can talk in circles
and filibuster the time
I should be using to kiss you

Kissing does not mean you are falling in love
But it is a start

In the same way I sleep best with a body against me
But I have a twin bed

*** is not falling in love
But it often ends
with you falling asleep  
against me

And from there
what do we fall into?
and
Who does the catching?

After the sweat cools on your now
***** neck
it changes the scent of your skin

I want to place my mouth there
And taste you like the ocean
Filtered through a cloud

I get so mad at the sky
Pulling itself inward overhead
I swear that it is a breathing thing

Then rain comes
And it's breath is now laughter

It pleases the sky to keep us here
inside

But I am still a child
Man sized
Holding you

I suggest we walk in the rain

It is not cold
But we are getting wet

The rain changes the scent of your skin

Your neck is still a little *****
I want to put my mouth there

"You smoke too many cigarettes"
she claims with the sun beating
on her face like her father
Drunk and heavy-handed.
"I'm worried about your health"
Her hand clutching my hand
like the Moon to the Earth,
altering tides and currents
thoughts and memories.
Occupying every conceivable
second of every single day.

Sometimes the mornings are restless
and the hangover is heavy
and the heart is heavy

And everything goes quiet
The body goes quiet
Maybe the sheets rustle
But the body is quiet
In silent prayer

This headache a revival
Back into existence

She has awaken already
She does not even leave her scent behind

I am thankful
Mostly for the quiet
As the sun illuminates the blinds
Like the beginning of light
exploding through a wall

And I am thankful
That no matter where these nights take me
Every morning
feels like home

In March of 2005, Dad packed his things
and left the house that he raised me in.
I didn’t notice anything missing, except for
a black and white photo album off the mantle
and the lounge chair he slept on for two years.

His new home, a renovated split-level,
was empty like an abandoned barn:
beautiful in its own tragic way, with
barely enough strength to keep it from
toppling over into a pile of rotted wood.

It was vacant, despite all the possessions
and bodies that lay lifeless inside the walls.

Years of silent dinners amplified by echoes
of awkward tiptoeing and closing doors
to hide the things nobody knew how to say.