He is forests and mountains and oceans
He is cliffs and caverns
He is tongue and truth and religion

I want nothing more than to explore every single inch

I remember when we first got together.
When it started with fireworks and butterflies and hope.
When every touch and every kiss felt like a revelation.
When love was our religion and worship our preferred pastime.

But now, it feels different; it’s all work, and money, and politics.
I shy away from your kisses and pray your hands stay above the belt.
And maybe it’s blasphemy to say this, but I feel like the magic is gone,
like I’ve fallen out of love with you.

I’m wondering if I’m having a change of faith or just now realizing
the sacrifice isn’t worth the settling, after all these years.

And I can’t tell which sin is worse —telling you or keeping it to myself,
because either way, someone’s heart will be broken.

I don’t belong here.
I go through the motions —the day to day— left unfulfilled.
I know I am meant for something more, something exquisite.
I don’t belong here.

Waves I
I can only compare her to
waves, because even when
I try to pull away, she pulls
me in again and again.
I again, I am left with
the feeling of shakiness
upon solid ground.

Waves II
I can only compare him to
waves, because no matter how
many times, I push him away,
he always pulls me back in.
Again, and again, I am welcomed
back into his sun-warmed waters,
despite my feelings of shakiness
upon solid ground.

Velvet moon
rays cascading down
caressing so softly, your skin,
I could scream.

Dressed in nothing
but the moonlight,
wrapped in folds of silk and sin,
there, you dream.

I don’t know if it
was love at first sight.
When you looked into
my eyes, I just knew.

You were my twin flame.
In all our past lives,
in a parallel universe
it has always been us.

Flames burn
skies turn
souls yearn

sweet pain
one reign
twin flames

The shadow man came in the dead of night
Slithered into my bed, curled against me, tight
I bid him speak, yet he said not a word
No face could be seen, but his breath could be heard

I felt his smile, pressed to my back
his wicked grin curling through the black
I could not turn ‘round scared to look on his eyes
that he’d end me if ever his foul gaze met mine

When the shadow man left, he rolled out’ my bed
dragging his feet on the carpet, like one of the dead
his nails scratched the sheets and scored the door-facing
I held my breath, til’ certain he’d gone, my heart racing.

the clatter of plates the click
of chopsticks dancing on the floor
as a guest unfurls their napkin

the napkin left in the back of the
booth and the wads of straw wrappers
intermingled with scattered rice

the smell of rice and ramen and
braised pork belly and tofu and
the stench of everything mixed
together in the trashcan in the back

these things are all I remember from
working in the ramen house

Coffee.

Breakfast in bed.

Sunlight pouring in on warm, silk sheets.

Your head between my legs, your lips on mine, gently writing me love letters with your tongue.

Perfect Morning.

old soul, old as time
composed of stardust
and fine lines

mortal frame
a sad attempt to
capture you

lovely hair and
little bones and
eyelashes filled with
sunlight

if only they could
see you the way I do

naked, old soul

I'd rather feel the pain, the sickness, the despair, the destruction, the loss, the fear, the loneliness, the struggle, the exhaustion, the worry, the doubt, and everything in betweent.
I'd rather feel the hand of death curling with
every drag of cigarettes smoke and the threat of a hangover with every burning sip.
I'd rather feel every bad emotion, sensation, feeling than feel nothing at all.
I'd prefer pain over the feeling of numbness any day.

He’s been there through the milk, but will he stick around in the meat?

The smaller bumps in the road come easier than the potholes and sharp turns.

When things get tough, will he be around?

He threw back her silence like liquor but it stung him all the same.
He didn't regret his words — he'd meant them with everything in his bones.
He regretted that she didn't feel the same.

Dying young isn't tragic because she never reached her dreams or found her full potential.

Dying young is tragic because she never knew love.

He said,

“I need a love like hot air balloons, with passion and fire, rising through the sky, higher & higher.”

I told him,

“I don’t know much about fire-flying-basket-balloons, but I know love, and this is it. Love chokes you up the same way a bird’s eye view does, when by nature, you’re ground-bound."

There are two things that drive us -fear and desire
My deepest fear is never reaching my full potential
and likewise never realizing my greatest desire.
My greatest desire is reach my dreams and finding
true, passionate, unadulterated love.
The kind of love and connection that makes you feel
stimulated, satisfied, and fullfilled emotionally, mentally, and sexually.
But somehow my greatest desire is also to never realize my deepest fear.
You see, the two are interconnected, joined at the proverbial hip.
One cannot hope to reach their greatest desire without facing their deepest fears.

I'm searching for myself in a world where we're the average
of the five people we spend the time with, but have millions
of people to connect with, get to know, emulate.
Where we're constantly comparing ourselves
to one another and struggling to find our identity when it
very well could be any singular one or combination of those people.

I know all of them, all of you.
I just want to know me.

-Found poem in Jim Rohn’s quote “You’re the average of the five people you spend the most time with.”

I had never thought I would
so greatly enjoy the mundane –
sitting and doing nothing,
no more than a good conversation
existing in the presence of good
company, but it has been revealed
to me, that I do in fact, take great
pleasure in time spent with loved
ones, doing nothing in particular,
but breathing,
existing.

I have never been one to  fantasize about the unlikely, but you’ve got me in my head day in, day out, daydreaming about the day I finally come face to face with you once again, love.

Listen to your eyes.
Take note where they linger
and where they don't.

Take note at whom you catch
yourself starting and whom
you couldn't bear to watch.

Take note of those whom
you can't bring yourself
to turn away from, like
a driver, passing by,
an onlooker at a car crash,
a sight you can't peel your
eyes from, if your life
depended on it.

We’ve come together physically,
we’ve connected emotionally,
we’re on the same wavelength, mentally,
and all that’s left is a spiritual bond.

We’ve barely scraped the edge of it before,
but we have yet to hoist ourselves up over
that ledge and experience what it truly means
to be bound.

I want it all.
I want your head, your heart, your mind, your soul.
I want your days, your nights, and afternoons.
I want your nows and laters, your firsts and lasts.
I want your happy days and sad days.
I want your good and your bad.
I want your autumns, winters, springs, and summers.
I want your suns and your rains.
I want everything about you.
I want it all.
Everything, all of it, or nothing.
I won’t settle for less.

I’m an all or nothing person; I always have been, I always will be.
If I’m not challenged one way or another, I create my own.
I’ll self-sabotage even if I know better -not necessarily intentionally,
but despite having learned the lesson before.
If I’m not feeling challenged, I will put myself in precarious situations -drama, debt, depression.

It’s never for attention, and always for feeling something besides numb.
Even negative emotions serve a purpose; the feeling of struggling is a sense of survival and shows you’re still alive.
Numbness is nothing; you might as well be dead.

Again, I **** the cigarette.
Again, I nurse the liquid fire.
Again, again, again.
I do these things again and
again, for no other reason than this:
It reminds me of him.

I close my eyes again and again, but even so
I cannot get the thought of you lying naked
beneath the moonlight out of my head.
I can’t extinguish the flames burning between my
legs and the desire in my heart.
I can’t part ways with the thought of you giving yourself
wholly and completely to me last night.
You surrendered your soul to me in the darkness
and again, I am hungering for you.
My love, tell me once more, that you are mine and
mine alone, just as I am hopelessly and wonderfully yours.

Nowadays it's all ***, drugs and rock n' roll,
**** *******, get money, and
stack on stacks on stacks, but
what happened to love?
What happened to getting so completely lost and
wrapped up in someone else instead of getting high?
I long for the days when I'll be in someone's arms
for the right reasons and not just the pretty
little thing on their laps.

The scratch
of your beard is like wool on my skin,
welcomed and
warming to the touch.
As itchy as it is, I never want to be
without it.

The sun filtered through the trees and fell on your face in such a way,
it made me almost jealous that it could touch you so freely and I couldn’t.
I looked to the sky and wondered why you weren't mine already.
I'd been by your side for years, through the good and the bad.
I'd stuck around and listened and experienced and I knew you like no other.
So, I can't help but wonder how we got stuck here.
Maybe, I should start tossing my coins into wishing wells instead of rain buckets.
I never really believed in wishing wells, but if it would make you mine, then I'd do it.  
Maybe, it's because there's another you have your heart set on?
Maybe, it’s because you don't want to ruin us.
I don't think you could if you tried.

No rest for the wicked,
and no rest for the weary.
My eyes become slickened,
dreaming of the dreary.

You’re an  idol, dearest lover,
promising tranquility.
Love in thee, I have discovered,
is paired with fragility.

Close my eyes to clear away
the noxious thoughts clouding my mind,
Though I would wish that I could stay,
I fear, I must leave thee behind.

Overwhelmed by serenity,
My sleepless nights, they come no more.
In the lack of your terrenity,
harmonious dreams, then are restored.

You know, that lingering
feeling of waves pulling
and pushing you
in and out of the sea
as you lay in bed after a
long day at the beach, that
is what it feels like after a day
with you.
Except with the waves,
if you forget about them for just
a moment, the sensation passes.
I couldn’t forget you, not even for a second,
and even if I did, I couldn’t shake the feeling of you.

When he asked me why I loved
the rain,
the ocean,
    and the river so,
the only answer I had for him was that
even after all I’d been through, I was
never afraid to get back in the water.

You weren't made for the sun or moon
or from the earth, wind, or fire.
You were the kind that ran with the wild horses
and floated where the river carried you.
You were the sort of soul that not only
enjoyed the rain but danced in it like it was more
than water falling to the ground, like it was a ritual
and only you could thank the clouds for every drop.
You were the kind of soul that believed in vivid
dreams and the absence of shoes,
because bare feet helped you stay grounded.
You were as free as water.
How could you let yourself dry up?

Be it time,
be it space,
no matter the distance,
I will wait for you.

How often is it that I hear you calling
yourself a good-for-nothing, useless,
unwanted, ugly, and a nuisance?
Don’t be a ****.
Be a vetiver.
Grow stems that are tall and leaves
that are thin with lovely
brown-purple flowers adorning them.
Be versatile, stabilize the ground
around you, and with your rigid stems keep
those crawlers out.
Provide for the animals and protect the fields
against those that are weeds.
Let your oils heal and renew, replenish.
Be strong and durable, yet flexible like the rope
made from vetiver.
Be a vetiver, child for if you are a ****,
you will be culled and thrown out, but
those that have grown themselves a place
within the world will thrive.

Like the veiled midnight moon,
shrouded in the clouds, I,
covered in your gossamer sheets,
still shine brighter night.
When it is only us three,
I feel most at ease, most at home.
In your arms, beneath
the gentle gaze of the moon.

Darling dreamer,
close your eyes and sleep.
See the rain and the streets and the
silver buildings that jut
like silent watching giants into
the clouds.
See the coffee shops and the window seats
and the libraries and the guardian moon.
See the glittering city lights in the
evening and the dew-slicked streets in the
morning.
See the black and the silver.
See us.

Precious metals lifted up
from their watery graves
in the depths below.
Scrawled on their
backsides, 71026010.
Stacked, stored, arranged
in Venice.
The shipwrecked collection tells
a story of a slave who escaped
with eclectic artifacts, only
to be buried with
them beneath the sea.
It was all invented, orchestrated,
a fraud.

Unbelievable.

We invent excuses, complications for love
and romance, but the simplest truth is,
even though it is so, when you know, you know.
So many days are spent in the act of weaving webs and
tossing ourselves from one muse to another,
from one obsession to another from one infatuation
to another and getting stuck.
This just comes with it.
But the most exquisite truth of all is that when you
stumble upon someone who steals softly the breath from your lungs
by their existence alone, someone who takes you to another universe,
another eternity all its own, where you can do no more than sit
doe-eyed and serene, pouring over their every perfection and
imperfection, all the same, all in love,
you never return from it.
You have no choice.

Love doesn’t come easy
It is a dogfight through and through

But once you find it,
you will remain changed always.

I’ve collected many, many
trinkets over years and
decades and I’m probably
dating myself by saying,

I’ve got more than Ariel
and more than my mom,
more than father too,
but you know whose
collection takes the cake?

Grandma Betty’s.
Why?
Because not only is it a
massive hodge podge of
things she’s loved, and things
she loves, but it’s also a
collection of things
that remind her of those
she loves and those
that love her.

So yes, I have trinkets.
Gadgets and gizmos, galore.
But mine is nothing compared
to her collection of things I adore.

You complain of pits and
wrinkles and dark marks
and shadows of old age.
You say that the shadows
of your life in the world
will haunt you for your
remaining days.
You are wrong.
You, my friend, are a Tonka bean.
Your outer skin is wrinkled
and darkened, but that’s just part
of the growth, part of the journey.
Inside, you’re a rich, chocolatey
brown, with flavors that remind me
of vanilla, cinnamon,
saffron, almond and cloves.
You are so sweet and full-bodied
and well-rounded and all I am trying
to say is that You’re so much more
that the skin on the outside of your body.
You have so much experience
and wisdom to offer the
world.

There is some kind of
soft magic in the way
striking the same key over
and over again, hearing the
same note over and over
again can bring a chill to
my skin and tears to my eyes.
Even if you only played that
key for the rest of your life,
know, that it has moved me so,
and that I will forever be inspired,
imagining what the rest of your
lovely tune could possibly be.

Hot on my lips
the amber liquid flows
even with milk and
honey, it could never
be as sweet as you.

I am so very sorry for  how sweet I must taste that you’d accidentally
let my name roll off your tongue, whilst savoring her.

Except, that I'm not.

You asked me if I’d ever been to honey
creek. And when
I shook my head,      you
                           took my hand and led
                                                        me into the tall trees.

The river was
frozen over and moss
                                    hung like beards on
   the bare branches.
You said to close my eyes and breathe in
                            the world around me.
The nature, the beauty
                                      and the quiet of the forest.
It quickly became my favorite place, not because of
     what I saw there, but because of
                                                   what I couldn’t see.

I take back everything I ever said about the things I would and wouldn’t be caught dead doing.

I could never ever have known the person I’d grow up to be.

It used to be that the things that kept me in my comfort zone were
boring, but now, they bring me solace, and those that remain outstanding, somehow bring me the most joy.

I dance a very intricate dance between two worlds, struggling to find my place somewhere in the middle.

Somehow, I find myself teetering over one edge or the other, never truly at peace and never truly bothered enough to give this life up.

I’ve lost track of the weeks,
started
losing motivation,
losing momentum.

Or rather gaining momentum?

Moving like a snowball, rolling downhill,
all control lost, spiraling.
No doubt, collision, just around the corner,
waiting betting on my failure.
I’m not frozen yet- and when the snow melts,
I’ll either sink or swim.

My dear, this life is as sweet as
warm, honeyed tea.
Why be so bitter, when all you
need is to bring your
lips to the rim and sip.

He was, still is, and always will be
my sweetest dream,
my beautiful nightmare,
my lovely monster.
He’s the recurring, fire in my bones
and the only thing that could
extinguish the flames.
He’s the thoughts that keep me
awake at night and the very
first thing that comes to mind
each morning.