you're not a saint
but keep beating that dead animal like you are
bring it back to life
put those strings on the limbs
make it dance
dance for your world
that you're still so desperate to impress
dance for your pride
dance for your ego
dance for yourself
that's all we ever were doing
spinning in circles around your sensitivities
spinning in circles around what i was doing wrong
i'm hearing a ringing in my head
echoes of your tantrums
when you couldn't respond
only cross your arms
and fall into yourself
where you danced in your self pity
danced in your despair
i'm not the composer of your songs
you're singing to yourself baby
and you have been all along

why do i keep
          by your
                     side
                  
                     if i'm *lost

I still think
Heaven is a small
Town with bright
Blue eyes and the
Sound of a child's
Laugher—

That it unknots
The brows of even
The most weary of
Philosophers.

I still think
Heaven is a small
Garden encrusted with
White feathers and
The west-wound winds
Coming from the Atlantic.

An old harbor—Vladivostok—
Spelled perfectly,
Abandoned by
Knaves and all the carnage they left,
Or Ceasaria:

Dry bed of luminous ruins.

I imagine You beckoning us:
"Don't be afraid, come!"—
Revealing pockets of
Nature only you would have
The courage to call

Beautiful.

She flickers in and out of me
like the movements
in a midnight sea.

For me, love has always been like sleepwalking. I never remember how I get there but there are always footprints behind me in the snow that appear to be the same size as my own. Somehow I ended up there again, with my face turned upward and the wind kissing it. Whoever compared love to warmth was lying. It is cold. It is the inch between solid ground and frozen lake that you can't see. It is the fog that clings to the tops of trees and softly whispers your name. It is the frost on your window that reminds you how easily things can break. The worst part of falling in love is falling out of love. The worst part of sleepwalking is waking up.
You woke up.

When you look at him your irises turn into beautiful little lilacs, complimenting your rosy cheeks that adopt the sun's rays, holding the warm and powerful light hostage beneath your soft skin.

When he looks at you his eyes become reflectors of the moon's bright light, making his eyes seem so much more deeper, and so much more iridescent than they were before; and when he looks at you his skin turns into icicles, every inch turning into little tiny mountains.

When the two of you come together, your nerves and blood and organs begin to pull the both of you even closer, allowing your hearts to speak to one another: each repeating the phrase I love you, followed by its lover's name. It is a beautiful and subtle conversation.