i daydreamt of monet at lunchtime
as i sat alone on the bench by the waterfall that marked the
and smelled the
and reminded me of the fact that

sometimes literal meaning is less important than the
smell of wildflowers and the and the way that under the hot july sun
the colors of the forest felt a little brighter
and my skin was more sensitive to the breeze than it perhaps would have been
had it only been sixty five degrees
and not eighty three.

and waterlilies are
,in fact,
a little more green than monet painted them,
and less blue,
but whatever.

or was it just that i hadn't eaten at all in two days
and that i was feeling a little light headed
and when your mind can't help but wander off on its own
then the way that the trees
and the birds
and the children
and the clouds and the sky reflect off of the water
start to remind you a little of monet

i like it when
the light is orange and
i see you smile at me like i'm crazy and
your tongue sticks out from between your canines and
your teeth are only slightly crooked and

i like it when
i feel your chest and its perfect and round and
you feel my chest and your open palm slides down my body and
i breathe in deeply and look up with closed eyes and
i feel your breath with my neck and

i like it when
i confess to being an imperfect being and
you tell me "its okay i'm imperfect too and i love you" and
i love you
and

i like it when our thoughts collide

red light,
bright, shines inside the room.
its cold in there but i say
don't worry the colors will warm our hearts tonight.
she speaks to me through feeling
and shes present on the radio waves we don't hear.

warmth - still: the forbidden fruit
for an artist's heart is bloodshot and bleeding.
but its more important that you live knowing
you truly lived than to merely seek happiness.
to put yourself on trial by fire
if for no other reason than it casts warm
red light,

if freedom were a moment
it would be midnight in june,
alone with the scent of freshly cut grass and car exhaust as companions,
and the wind brushing scruffy hair back into bleeding ears,
becoming deaf from the guitar squeals and drum kicks blasting through the radio,
understanding that it can only be fully absorbed at full volume,
and letting it fade into the white noise of the wind and passing cars in the left lane content to drive on into infinity,
content to believe in the endless  space of an open highway lit only by stars in the sky and headlights extending on into the black horizon,
not thinking so much as feeling, vibrating, pulsing, moving as one with the thousand pounds of steel and glass that fly at a thousand miles an hour,
and feeling invincible,

nothing can feed a wild heart like flying
at a thousand miles an hour

when i'm dead,
no one will remember the little moments
between the big moments.
and if no one will remember them,
then i'm free to do anything unextraordinary,
like walk on benches
in the spring sunshine,
and talk to the birds
and tell them my secrets
and smile.

the crisp air,
the wear and tear
on autumn leaves
by the autumn breeze.
the chill on my spine
that I can't seem to find
anywhere but here.
it's weird the way I can't place it,
I can't erase it from my brain.
the way I'm pained to quantify the scene.
a golden masterpiece.

breathe.
the bittersweet air
was too much for the scared,
so they made believe they had control.
they had their rook,
the black queen was gone,
they had their days so far withdrawn
that they almost thought they were out of the hole.
their last pawn on the second row.
it's easy to think life's a game of chess
when all we want is a sweet caress and a little slack.
someone to have your back would be nice.
a lit match,
in the dark of the night.