So come sit with me here,
Where the heavens meet the shore
And let the waters lick your feet.

And we'll sit and we'll talk,
You'll ask me again how I've been.
I just keep repeating "I'm Okay" - "I'll be fine."
And I just can't believe
That you believe me.
I must be a better liar than I thought.

I can still smell his scent on your words.
The lingering ache
Of all the lies that you were suckered by.
So here's to you and your bright baby blues.
They shine just like the stars tonight.
Just like the stars.

I'm so tired of talking in riddles,
Dropping hints and trying to be tactful.
So let me lay it out straight.
He was never good enough for you.
Never.

"You're afraid of growing up."

Perhaps
but I see no shame in that
why would I ever want to grow up
if it means being
miserable
lonely
and drunk
like you,
Dad.
-

If there was a way that I could turn
The pages back to that single moment,
I would, but for now, I simply yearn.

Your hands lay below mine,
Gently warming all of the heartache
That I had so recently left behind.

My head lay on your shoulder,
My eyes grazed your sun-kissed face.
Beauty lies not only in the beholder.

I still remember the strength
I felt in your tender embrace,
Each breath in unison and faith.

For a moment, we both had earned
A break from worries and tears,
A step back from hard lessons learned.

You stirred. I reluctantly moved
My loving eyes from your lips,
A quiet smile as a gift was proved.

You softly whispered my name,
A much sweeter sound when from
The mouth that set my soul aflame.

A tear slipped from my eye,
Speaking thousands of volumes
No one else would ever understand.

As your heartrending gaze held
My eyes, you tenderly put your lips
Over the glass tear that wouldn't be withheld.

As time passed we shared our love
That utterly surpassed our beings
Our hearts flying upwards as a dove.

Our bodies lay under the willow tree,
The sun was setting. We were finally free.


© 2/25/13

This coat is still fresh.
It hasn't dried completely yet
and it smudges and swirls under the pressure of prodding fingers
yet to be believed
or understood.
I would have liked to see you when you were first made
standing cold
and untainted,
but no one keeps that kind of innocence for long.
You've been painted over so many times
so many coats.
Some of them are delicate
an airbrush of experience
barely noticeable if you go chipping away with too much enthusiasm.
Others are thick,
heavy,
dark and muddled,
confused,
they stain down deep
thrown on all at once
a slop drunk family letting buckets fly unlidded.
I can tell about those
the ones that didn't dry smooth
and formed misshapen globs of character,
and regret,
that bump and scrape, against the outside world
against its professional counter parts.
That's what makes you whole
that's what I admire.
When I look close
and run my fingers over your painting of personality
the bits that are constantly bending
and moving
the way they peel
and crack
and let me see
all those lost layers you've painted over to keep a secret.
I don't want to wash this abused collage away.
I want to spread and muddle it all together,
and use your hues
your pallet of pity and perfection
to help paint over those secret parts of me
that I don't want to be found either.