the lines of time
bleed onto paper
circling back and
forth and back
around to the same
blurry puddle
and they drip
drip
drip
to the floor
blue and gold
and black
holes and
smeared
galaxy
and grey time
slipping into
the ticking fingers
of an old grandfather
clock
and they fold
sometimes into
the bell tower
on the hour every hour
stamped onto
every wrist
glowing in every hand.
it's happening all
at once. you've
lived this second
infinity times before,
checking the time.
are you late?
are you early?
yes.

it is your
two good hands.
it is your beating heart
threaded into my skin.
it is your greedy mouth
stealing the breath from mine.
it is your violent fingertips,
your vicious palms,
leaving their trace
across every *****
of my body.
it is your two good
hands.

the wandering kind
adrift and heartless
looking for a place
that's something like
home.

sometimes it's four
walls, sometimes
it's a mouth and a
heartbeat.

you always want me
to find home in you
and i am a tireless sea;
always drifting away.

always leaving
some of myself
behind.

always leaving you
wishing I'd
stay.

i think we forget
time is not linear,
and we do not
exist on a line.
we do not exist
from this point
to this point.
it's kind of like
believing the world
is flat. it forgets that
there is neither
beginning nor end,
only continuation.
your end is a new
beginning somewhere
else. your timeline isn't
simply ended; it warps
and circles and splays.
you are not a momentary
blip on the map of the
universe, you are splatter
and chaos and birth
and decay. you are
so much more than
simple live and die.
you are so much more
complex than here
and not here. look at
the terrible beauty of
the poetry of everything.
we are synergy, we are
equally all and nothing.
i am the nerves spiderwebbing
your body - you are
the galaxies spiderwebbing
the universe. never
forget that you are not
dust - you are star dust.
infinite and complete.

doomed myself
to sisyphus

watching that boulder
roll past me

day after day
year after year

doomed myself
to narcissus

drowning in
the oceans of

my own expectation
for eternity

i am complexes,
i am enigmas

i am nothing i have
designed for myself

i am trapped in the round
tables of beauty and purpose

that have been created in
circle after circle after

circle and someday i yearn
to press my palm

through the surface for
what's beneath

and someday i will
destroy that boulder

and neither will rule
my existence

and i will be free
from that circle

someday.
someday.

more questions
than answers.
existing somewhere
like that layer
of fog that
wraps a cold
morning after
a too warm night.
we can't breathe
here, but we
try, gasping.
we fumble
forward, caught
up on invisible
things. we are
desperate for
peace and solace.
the satisfaction
of solitude. it's
lost to a sea of
discontent and
the all too eager
hunger of need.
I can't hold my
hand. I can hold
yours, though.
even when I don't
want to. as long
as you'll let me.
I won't have
answers,
but we'll
keep climbing
on
anyway.

I've held your bones,
strong as old oaks;
felt your blood
rushing like rivers
beneath the skin.
felt the constellations
of your fingertips
and the hurricane
of your heartbeat.

you are a universe
in flesh.