kiss me
until i can no longer
feel the pull of gravity
until i am among the stars
then i would pick the stars for you
lay them out in the shape of you
hold me
until i feel your warmth
more than the burn of the sun
i would collect sunshine for you
then you could always stand in the light
i would take your hand from here
and we could walk down a flowery path

woman.
house of fire and hope
and light.
woman.
canvas where loveliness and
fierceness blend.
woman.
ocean of flowers and life.
garden where all things wonderful grow.
woman.
you.

let me tell you the story
of the girl who laced cigarettes
with the taste of coffee
the girl who stained tissue napkins with sappy phonetics
and the guy who knew nothing of the sort

she carved heartbreak on the surface of her wrists
and broke silence with unessential questions
she wore her wounds in a tight braid
and carried her worries on the pages of a paper-back book
she described her mind as retired
from all the wars she has won and lost
she exclaims sighs of relief
and stands by the neutrality of her hopeless idealism

on the other side of the universe, however

there exists
the personification of oblivion
he betrays his race with an unrecognized voice
and words misunderstood by his own kind
he returns to his world for temporary release
of what
he is still unsure of
and yet
he is certain of the presence of sadness
he masks his isolation with a facade of self-accompaniment
and satisfies his inner desires with empty seats
he covers up his chapters with bottles of prohibition
and mystifies the tables with ashes of past regret
he sings about tomorrow as if it holds a promise
a promise of better days to come
he has gone from mountain to mountain
in hopes of a brighter view of the sun
but amidst all his travels,
he is yet to be blinded by the brightest of flames

and so,
he appears to be void
of reason
of worth
of a sense of purpose
of plans of the future

and maybe this is where the story ends.

with both their hands shaking from an overdose
with momentary glances of unread excerpts of themselves
with the unspoken truths
and with held-back melodies of lyrics still unknown
with curses of similarities
and vows of their difference
with her,
believing she already knows too much
and with him,
thinking she is yet to know more

or maybe I was wrong.

because maybe,
just maybe,

this is where the story begins.

And oh, how sweet, the words you speak, they taste.
How soft they blow, how sure they flow; no haste.
An old eclipse, how slow, your lips -- they part.
So young, naive, quickly deceived, my heart.
How warm, your eyes, they hypnotize my soul.
And how I miss the touch, the kiss, you stole.
So sure was I that you'd be my first love.
But love's a thing we know nothing thereof.
Foolish of me to fall so deeply in.
How long I thought your smile was not a sin.
And oh, how used, how scared, confused, my trust.
Feelings so shy, that you deny, 'tween us.
How ruefully, our memories, they fade.
How bittersweet our love; like lemonade.

- p. winter

-
sometimes i get tired of working,
i'd like to be more free.
not spilling paint,
dotting i's or crossing t's.
so i take a walk, make some tea,
stretch my knees and try to breathe.
-
the warmth of this unsteady breeze,
puts me at ease, it could put me to sleep.
i feel at home among these sad, sleeping trees.
i wonder what gets them down,
or maybe they're just having bad dreams.

dear weeping willows,
of what do you dream?
a cold night of lonely moonbeams,
or of dead tiger lilies floating downstream?
i hope you're happier than you seem.
dear dreaming willows,
why do you weep?