I kiss you, I
  kiss you, every night, I
  kiss you;

in a dream that makes this 3-dimensional reality
seem flat:  I touch your face, and
speak my thoughts out loud.

     [and the sparks are there: red, orange, I swear]

I sigh -
breathing warmth into frozen words I
keep locked up in the light of day; oh, but
at night, I dream of
            -  the nevers
            -  the what-ifs
  ­          -  the if onlys

Sustained by these solitary hours, and
under deep cover of moonlight and stars, these
evenings become my playground, and I
              become what I could never be.

  I dream; and when
  I dream —

I kiss you…

they’re back in black
AC/DC T-shirts so ******* new you can see the hole left by a Target price tag
that was probably ripped away just days ago.

they’re too young to fall in love
and they think Motley crew is the ****
while the English teacher in me wants to scream
“it’s Crüe, you *******!”

they say they’ll die with their boots on
but this ain’t no maiden voyage, I mutter underneath my breath,
to no one in particular at all.

they wanna rock --
    they want
         to
           rock!

but they just don’t understand:

you gotta fight
for your right
to party.

it’s about to rain, and
I don’t know how to feel about that.

I used to like those signs of an oncoming afternoon shower:

the sun shines a little brighter, at first.

I suppose it knows it is being upstaged,
so it kicks out a few extra rays
underneath the pressure
only to be overshadowed by clouds
as they inch their way center-stage.

I can smell the rain.

I know I’m not the only one, but
I like to pretend, sometimes, that I am.

And I also know I’m not the only one
stuck with this all-too-cliche’ feeling —
this aching, gnawing sensation
that reminds me of what I already know:

             that I, too, am fading out.

And I guess, I, like the sun
just before an afternoon rain,
know that I'll soon be upstaged, too.

So, here I am -
kicking out a few of my own rays
just before I buckle underneath the pressure
        of all these ******* clouds.

Pink

Slide down,
Dissolve
and rise; synthetic
inspiration
    manufactured by strangers with
Clipboards
and labcoats
and beakers.
 
And I don't mind, no --
I don't mind your origin at all.
 
Only the destination.
 
          Come to me.

it’s hard to carry dead weight, but
i’ve been doing it for years
this ebbing relic, growing heavy
too cumbersome, your souvenir

still, always the optimist, i
feign blindness, not to see
you glancing back, over your shoulder
instead of looking here, at me

gentle tugging gone, these
heartstrings tattered, all affray
you keep Her, white-knuckled
in your grip, oblivious to such decay

yeah, i know, i know…
i know that i
“don’t know”

oh, but you, you don’t know
either, how I close my eyes
and see Her

sure, She’s gone —
but She’s not going

anywhere.

This fire you set will only burn for so long
blue-gray circles of smoke dance, then disappear
for we are only young for a time, and then
carried away on a slow, translucent breeze…

Ghosts fly in through a broken window
questioning the day you died.
and your yesterdays all turn to stone
prisoners to every sunrise;

Fool, did you really believe you would live forever?

Gather up your bones and pick them clean
and as you lay you down to sleep
(making secret wishes for more time)
angels take your breath away…

    indian givers.