A heaviness in her fingertips
kept her always off balance
she watched her weight
but not the burdens
which, she found,
add up when you
aren't paying attention.

and days like this
i miss you more
than any other.
in this cold
i could see your           breath
and our bodies
wouldbecloser.
for the warmth,
of course.
your glove fingers
wouldn't fit into
my mitten hands
so you would
put yours
in
my
pocket.
on days like this
i miss you more
than any other.
this time,
on
any other day
we would be
sipping       hot     hot
coffee
and making jokes
about our past.
we would
probably
make a fire
if we had remembered
to get wood.
if not,
we would gather
all the blankets
sleeping bags
and quilts
we owned
and would make
the greatest
coziest
blanket fort
on record.
days like that
are ones I miss.
and it's hard
that today is
not that day.

And girl girl,
watch yourself!
those deceitful
monsters will
be sure sure
to steal.
check over
the shoulders
of the masked.
and lean your head
only on the
shoulders shoulders
of men with trust
and honor between
their lungs lungs.

and it was in my moment of listening
where I came to understand
what I have received.
an undeniable love
wrapped in a powerful unconventional beauty.
and so,
abandoning all stress and tension
releasing anger and anxiety,
I accepted the gift,
the honor, really
and became not just
my father's daughter
but the Potter's daughter.
I took my gift
and it came with an avalanche
of light and unconditional
love.
So during that moment of listening,
that short, sweet moment,
I grew anew and
became who
my identity truly was.

And your body swayed red with fire.
And reminded me that passion exists.
Still. In this age of prothstetic souls and bones.
Your two feet walked like steel on earth.
Solid and understanding.
And the power that came from your eyes,
was purple with regality and a soft blue
that comforted me and the ungraceful body
I was given to call home.
Your body kept swaying red with fire.
Never ceasing.
Showing me that I have the same endurance
within me, too.
And someday when I'm stronger,
my body will sway red, too.
And our passion together will burn the brightest fire.

Broken glass shines brightly
beautifully mangled and
shredded to pieces.
Before the fall,
its wholeness was not complete.
It lacked the cracks
it sparkled less
and all we could see
was ourselves.

There is concrete around us
there are trashcans and garbage
and babies and flowers.
There is the power and deception
of humanity and
beautiful people to be saved.

We saw ourselves in all
our (untrue) glory
and walked on broken glass
proclaiming that it didn't hurt.
Missing the light shining
from those pieces we crushed.
But that demolition is
where our truth lies.

buoyant
lives
with no
substance
sailing
as a
leaf
in the
wind.
"I am
okay,
I am
not
drowning."
Yes, but
you are
not
flying.

Cadaverous
is my soul
blanketed
with blackness
freed from itself
only by grace
my organs had
shut down
and my heart
beat slower
slower
slower
til it stopped.
There was an
unexpected resurrection
a divine defibrillator
that revived my lungs
and kept my
dead, ashamed
heart ticking
and ticking
and ticking.

Carolina porches
litter a broken street
creaking swings
and goodbye hugs
too normal to notice
but odd enough
to split living ends.

Charred flesh
redemption of form
creating ashy pigment
too large to see
our passage home
started much brighter
but our bones have
been broken and
nourishment fled
our teeth and lockets
all that remain
left to speak
universal loss.

Come, let's find a king
with the answers to
our existential wonderings.
His royalty will shield
our eyes from the false
and reveal truths our
consciences lack.
The feast he prepares
will leave us satisfied
beyond all hunger
we've ever known.
Our broken bodies
will be mended.
The dirt under our
nails will be gone.
And our raw, scraped,
shaking knees will
kneel for no lies
and heal through
his desire for redemption.
He will open the golden gates
gladly and with welcome,
but far from sight as
he maintains an
air of mystery.

A beautiful king
we will find.

A heavenly, wholesome king.

Contagious is her laugh
and vibrant are her clothes.
She likes bare feet on hardwood floors
and the smell of campfires.
Don't get her started on her favorite poets,
or you'll be late for dinner.
Bedtime changes-
her mind works best late at night
or early in the morning.
Consistently inconsistent,
but beautifully tamed.
She chews ice cubes
and collects mugs.
Somedays she has a hard time
seeing beauty.
Other times her heart can't
handle the warmth in the world.
Seeking are her eyes.
Longing for a member to
complete her heart life.
She picks her split ends
and paints her nails
brilliant colors everyday.
When her overwhelming
passion hits the world,
you'll know.

Desiring a beautiful soul
to complement mine.
Still and silent and
full of confidence.

Like mine isn't.

tell me your scary stories
where your terror and fear
match the angry sea
during a storm.
make my heart race
and keep my fingers
entwined with yours.
in the end, though,
be sure to tell me
it will all be okay.
and that we will be okay
in this world.
okay, really,
turn the lights back on.
this darkness and distance
has gone on long enough.
what? six more months
of separation?
you did it.
I'm terrified.

Elbows on table
wood grain holding too much
face in your hands
without noises
no sobs, no sighs
no anything.
Your posture sharp
demonstrating my flaws
displaying no one's triumphs
speaking in strains
and voids between
our thoughts.

I bring you tea
place the mug on that
overwhelmed table
with no response.
Outside the air moves
the broken wind chime.
My head turns,
the legs of that
dumb chair we
bought at an estate sale
scrape against the floor
as you push away
from the table.
I see your back as
you walk through
the door.
And those elbows
that sat on the table.

Everything I see
brings you to mind.
The carpet lines are
the stripes on your shirt.
The red bricks are
your lips-
and, yes, they smile at me.
The windows of my house
are your eyes.
The thick grass
moves like you hair
and my fingers want
to scratch your dirt scalp.
Every white car
is yours.
The wind is
your voice
and the sunshine
your laugh.

I see your photo
and it's only
an image,
yet you are
always around me
and soon enough-
your features
that I see
in this world
will be real
and physically near.

Find the stories within the stories,
she said. And it couldn't
have been clearer.
Search it all
and be insatiable.
Every crack and nook
in my soul must be
wholly
ablaze and full.

floral pattern on the bed
chipped paint on the dresser
woven rug on the floor
the dog on his pillow
faded jeans on the chair
frames on the table
(you know the one
with us at the fair)
your pillow next to mind
my arm on your empty side
I lay there with nothing but
you on my mind.

For it was in your love
you taught me
to love.
and wrap my branches around
another human's body
and heart.
and let my tense and
distrustful roots
breathe out a sigh
and relax their muscles.
The gentleness of your love
made me smile, blush,
and feel planted
just where the heavens
made me to be.
Your softness whispered
to me.
and told me
I am brave
and strong
and beautiful.
And your fingers
Would lightly brush my leaves,
making my eyes close
and see the most beautiful
future before us.
For it was in your love
that came a stirring
inside my heart to love,
too.
It opened my pores
and made me
believe that love can
cause any creature
in our world to come to life.

For your birthday,
I want you to know one thing.
It's not that you're incredible
or that I find you (so) attractive.
It's not that I am lucky
to be with my best friend.
Or that your eyes
your nose
your smile
are perfect
It's not that you treat me so well
and hug me like you mean it.
Or that I am proud
to call your mine and
want everyone to know it.
It's not that your kisses
your embraces
your words
take me to another world
and cause me to melt.

No,
what I want you to know
on your birthday is not these.
But,
all of these
plus
one loaded phrase.
I love you.

Gutter grates
and hotel keys
these are things
you see in me.

Fleeting soul
unchanging ways
my permanence
will never stay.

The hands tick by
and I don't come
the motion of
my passing love.

Sorry is
your fondness lost.
Affections
I always toss.

Hands clasped
between the milk mustaches
on rotting benches
with nowhere to go
but nearer.
Vines entangle their feet
flutters begin and
reality lands on their laps.
No comprehension of time
the mess it brings.
Living in the current
the ebb and flow
the cyclical pattern
of living and love.
Each freckle an apology
to accompany the age lines of wisdom.
Nearer they grow
by the pattern of the moon
and his watchful eyes.
Now, they decide,
is the time to die.
To separate self from self
and self from soul.
Their last kiss brings
the sea's salty tears
and quenches the fountain of life.
It's belly never too full
it's false promises
mislabeled for eternal propaganda.
The last sand grain drops
and their hands release
crooked bodies and
even more crooked souls.
Again, they mush wait,
this time for the rain.

He keeps me warm at night
his breath-
in and out-
on the nape of my neck
sends goosebumps
and satisfaction.
His arm around my hip,
turned on its side,
like his,
so my back and his chest
are one.
He keeps me warm at night
and when I toss from the images,
he stays right beside me
holding me
securing me to our bed and this world.
His chest rises and falls and his
noises begin.
And I am there, beside him,
to take it all in-
his breath
his heartbeat
embrace and feel
and know that he's with me there
under the covers
keeping me safe and warm.

He raises his left eyebrow
when he stares at my face.
Is it seductive or
a pleased and
attracted tic?
To me that eyebrow is perfect.
So is his skin and the way
he hugs me from behind.
I am fulfilled with each touch.
And every word
I hear in his voice
lifts and pleases
my left eyebrow.

her face is tiled
or is it of bricks?
it is chinked with
the finest mortar
as as to last a while
but without cracks
in a sidewalk,
the city cannot breathe.

I am clothed with
embarrassment and disgust.
But *******
would only highlight
more flaws- that
I already must confront
each day in the mirror.
I am not self-sufficient
and never will be.
I do not have the resources
or intelligence.
This is clear to see- to
anyone on the outside.
But there is a source
of peace and acceptance
where my nakedness is
not viewed as shameful,
but as a gorgeous
mess of heartache
and redemption.

I am positive there is
no other
for me
than you.

You are it.
Him.
My only.

My best friend
and
no one else could ever feel
quite right.

You are my complement,
my other.

And that's all.

We might as well accept it
because there's nothing
we can do about it.

Nothing.
At all.

Alright,
you've convinced me.
Let's get ice cream
and eat it out of the tub
with two spoons.
Like the civilized pair we are.
We'll eat it in one sitting.
No,
maybe two.
I promise
this will be our favorite
part of the weekend.
You and me.
Munching on fattening, frozen dairy.
Enjoying every bite.
And each second
as we sit on the edge of the bed
together.
So, I'll get my shoes
you get your keys
and we'll make
one of our favorite memories.

In those eight years,
you may have been oblivious.
But,
I've always known.

in my eyes is you.
and your heart.
and your soul.

in my eyes is your presence.
which is so alive.
and empowering.

in my eyes is your voice.
your sweet sweet voice.
whose words bring me comfort.
& belief.

in my eyes is you.
and my muscles and nerves ache.
because of your weight.
and knowing that you're always a part of me-
seeing my world-
all the beauty it has.

or is that you?

is my vision simply tinted
by your spirit,
optimism and beauty?

your spirit filters what I see
and you are the hue of my world.
because in my eyes is you.

and in your eyes
(i hope) is me.
and my nature.

so just maybe
the view you see
is the hue of me.
like my world's
hue is always you.

In that cocoon
nestled between the stone
only love existed.
I baby kissed your face
and all you could
do was laugh and smile.
There was joy within and
between our bodies.
Doing anything else
but be in that moment
seemed futile.
Your heartbeat kept
the pace of our day
and beat faster
when I kissed you.
The breeze skimmed
our flesh
and made us
cuddle closer-
reminding us what
love really feels like.
We remembered the
constitution of friendship and
its inevitable love-
All in that swinging cocoon.

In the lines of your palm-
the trenches of your skin,
is where I keep my heart.
You hold it safely and
keep it from falling.
The depths of your flesh
is where my heart calls home.

In the lines of my palm-
the trenches of my skin,
is where you keep your heart.
I hold it with care and
keep it from breaking.
The depths of my flesh
is where your heart calls home.

Our palms unite our hearts
and bring an aching of pure love.

I read the poetry of Hafiz
and Rumi, Shakespeare and Neruda.
Hundreds of years a part.
Yet, they all write about you.

Nothing can I read about love
without seeing your face,
hearing your words,
and feeling your skin.

I have been conditioned
like a salivating dog,
to pair your being
with love.
(and rightly so, I'd say).

For your real life love
makes the poet's words
dance
and sigh with satisfaction.

And when I think of your love,
I imagine a love greater
than any ever written.
A bond so close,
it can't fit into poetic words.

It rings in my ears
the sound of your taste.

And the smell of your touch,
lingers on my eyes.

Your senses won't leave,
they're engrained in my brain.

Forever you've marked me,
a permanent branding.

Yet, with you gone,
I taste with my tongue.

I hear with my ears,
and I feel with my skin.

But I'd much rather
sense your love in my bones.

I want to have deep roots
that are untouched by anything
other than the dirt.
Wholesome, hearty roots
that understand place and purpose.

I want to know, not in my bones,
but in my roots,
how to exist and simply be.
Learning to live with less
oxygen and more heart.

I want my foundations to be
firm and unchanging
to provide stability
when the shadows
and thieves come.

I want to have deep roots
that are untouched by anything
other than the earth.

I want you.
To have your arms around me
and push the hair off my face
as you hold my neck
for a kiss.
I want you.
To tell me things that are true
and show me the kindness in the world
and believe in me.
I want you.
To sing in your falsetto
and speak in that idiotic accent
while I roll my eyes at you.
You can have me, too,
if you want.
I guess that's only fair.
I can tell you jokes
and make you smile
and kiss you.
Boy, will I kiss you.
I want you
to know I want you.
And have never
been more in love with you.

lay down with me,
love,
and tell me stories
that make me giggle
and tell me your struggles
that will make me cry.
keep the lights off
so we're both staring
up at a black ceiling.
talking and sharing
our lives
and our takes on this existence.
after too much silence,
pull me close and
wrap your limbs around me.
whisper "I love you" in my ear
and kiss the top of my head.
now who's to say what will
happen next-
we may fall asleep or
things may go another way.
let's just see,
so come lay down with me,
love.

My love for you is abounding,
without barriers,
flawed,
and encompassing.

My love, itself, aches and
is joyful,
is loving,
and satisfied.

This love is goosebumps,
and fingers touching,
and intimate
and best friends.

We love as the waves break,
the fire consumes,
and the sheets ruffle.
We love as one.

park your thoughts
in a book-
blank with no
bias not even
lines to skew
where you ideas land.
show it to no one,
but to everyone.

September above
October below
your blue jeans on the floor
your stubble so close.

The leaves change
along with the space
between us
and our lungs.

Each autumn
breath we draw
confuses our airways
and our passions.

Your flannel shirt
left behind
before we had time
to make cider.

Gone as fast as
the snow came
your heart couldn't
handle the cold.

She stood on the sidewalk of 5th Avenue
with Central Park as her backdrop.
Her figure was perfect and
her posture poised.
Those that passed paid no attention,
too entrapped in their own speeds through life.

skin so perfect and warm
chest to chest.
vulnerability.
discomfort to feel comfort.
the requirements for mortal passion.
soon our souls will go heavenward
and our bodies to decay
with no more skin on skin.
a beautiful tragedy
overcoming this personhood
yearning for the breathless,
tingling nights.
not ready to bloom,
not quite ready to die.
skeletal hands grasp
for the promise of fullness.
satisfaction miles beyond.

but oh,
your skin on my skin.

Taken to the Rock,
an unknowing sacrifice,
Fathers should protect,
not aggress and ****,
but when he follows,
and agrees to the plan,
eternity is in place.

Staleness
(you must know)
is a problem
of the heart.

Stagnant at best
apathy is
(of course)
an art.

And for your love
and the romance
of our lives
I've decided to
attempt dancing
and all the glories
that come along.
For, this romance isn't
the aroma of accordion music
filling the Paris streets at nighttime,
while a couple dances
under the streetlights,
as rain begins to fall.
It's a romance about humanity
and desire and its heartache
that tries to tango in the suburbs
and tap in the slums,
whose clumsy movements cause
embarrassment for any party involved.
This love has a rhythm unlike
a big band hit or a bluegrass hand-clapper.
It has a rhythm all of its own.
Closest to, maybe, jazz.
The real jazz. The Harlem jazz.
Sparatic and unpredictable.
Upbeat, swinging cymbals and trumpets.
Then a slow sax,
with bluesy vocals crying out in pain.
Because you can't two step
or foxtrot
or tango
to that.
You must step carefully.
For this romance is fragile.
You cannot choreograph in advance
or synchronize moves
with your lovers'.
You simply must listen, feel, and move.
This dance of love
must cause you to cry
and smile
and melt
and ache
and desire to make love
all in the same motion.
Or it's not love.
It's an imitation
aimed at the beautiful and elegant.
And we aren't that.
We're humans with souls and flaws
who desire these false
motions and harmonies
of love,
but who need to still understand
love's true tender
and heartbreaking steps
that have no
recognizable rhythm,
but that promise
a lifetime of love.
So, I will not learn
love's romantic moves
for they are unteachable,
but I will attempt,
for your love
and romance,
my dear,
to sway to the music
and stay beside you
and follow your lead
as we wait for the
drums and the horns-
and the music to begin.

The demon is saddled
with reins controlling
a thrashing head
limbs kicking wildly
from their chains
as a helpless babe in water
mouth seething with anger
and eyes ablaze with fury
It's mission to
****
steal
and
destroy

the laughter and song travelled up the stairs
and parked themselves in her room
she cried for the joy and
she cried for the brokenness

the maker adores you
and every strand of your DNA
a precious embodiment of his love
his fingers are clasped in yours
20 stitches of love

The pennies and nickels
bounced loudly off
her cold, hollow
and metal heart.

Its valves never
seemed to work
and the steam machine
was down for the day.

Oil dripped into
her wheezing lungs.
Come clean me up!
was her only thought.

The pure, white rag
seemed so distant
but she longed
for its redemption.

She cried
tears of tar
and fell to her
knees with a clank.

this love is imperfect.
crying and throbbing
trying to catch its breath.
looking at each other
for the answer.
the next move.
But our dumb minds
don’t know what’s best
or how.

we stare at each other
with tears and
crooked hearts.
this love can be so painful.
our time and words hurt.
How can wounds cause growth?

Show us the truth in that,
for now it is hard to see.
and tears and heaving,
and the weight of our flaws
do not help.

I hope these are our roots
taking place-
grabbing ahold of
the solid earth.
Growing pains.
Keeping us as one
with something.
We are battling for the
best spot to lay
each root.
Sometimes I win.
Sometimes you do.
Sometimes we both lose,
knowing that where we want
our root is not where it should be.

So, we cry,
we ache,
and we stare from across the room
looking for our hint,
our instructions,
our manual.
Why don’t we know
what this love should do?

Hugging you is easy.
This is not.
So I move to you, hug you,
and we cry together
as our hearts are pulled
in ways they should
and shouldn’t go
this side of heaven.
Remembering the imperfections of this love.