I stopped writing love poems when I met you,
and started writing psalms instead: I took
your lips as the body and your hips
as the blood of a Holy Spirit you’ve been
hiding in your eyes, your eyes, your eyes
that I’ve been praying to
worship, worship, worship. Some would call
this feeling blasphemy, but since it is winter,
I am willing to take a little trip down to hell
to melt the cold in my bones, especially
if that means I can walk you back
to Heaven. But don’t take this all too seriously
because
I stopped writing love poems when I met you,
and started writing psalms instead: I took
your words as Gospel and raised them to my
tongue and matched it with yours to bathe
myself in your waters to wash away my sins-
and yes, I am a sinner, for I have undertaken
many a Crusade to prove myself worthy
of you. But the blood of my enemies is your
hips. The lips of those I have left for you is
your body. And still in your hell I find Heaven.
But
don’t take this all too seriously because
I stopped writing love poems when I met you.

The rain runs,
spreading the stone polished
and clean.
Like this, you must
let the water slip
on the back of your unkissed neck,
the curved dips between
your fingertips,
nestle
in the soft folds around your waist
that you hate,
and stumble on your collarbones,
your genetic mistakes.

Let it slide on the stretch marks
skimming your thighs
like fog diffusing across the hills,
and inside the grooves of your too-large ears,
form little streams.
Let it wash away
and unearth these parts of you
where you don't want to look,
where your lotion never reaches.

These are the little patches of soil
you must water with care.
Flowers, flaws -
how much is the difference?
One day a lover will give them a kiss
and you will understand
why we are so tender
with broken things.

Let them bloom, and see yourself
wilder, as you grow,
for gardens are most beautiful
with some ferociousness.

if you took
the edge out of a storm,
you'd be left with a blank film;
no soundtrack of droplets,
no lightning
cracks of conflict,
no romance, from
air steeped in rain.

so if
you wiped away your childhood
scar, laced your
back up straight,
turned the volume **** on your opinions
and cried a little less -
what
would you be then?

if you softened all your angles
would you tell your story well?

There is nothing more scarier than stripping your soul naked for someone who might not accept you.There is nothing more poetic than a man who is not afraid to feel nor fear walking through the burning fields of love. The kind of man that touches the depths of your soul in a way you never imagined. In places you never knew existed.

There is nothing more romantic than a man who destroys your walls and helps you build bridges...the kind of bridges that supports you and your burdens day in and out. There is nothing more romantic than a man who melts your heart by just starring at you.... there is nothing more rewarding than be loved.....

It started snowing recently: my first thought:
let me go skip along the ice-encrusted glass,
let me make a snow-angel: my second thought:
let me go skip along the frost-covered pathways
let me slip and fall and fall and crack my skull.

She drank her coffee too
sweet
and drew herself
to the smell of new
pencil shavings,
like a pupil dilates in light,
telling itself to expand,
to drink up
more
and
more.

She fumbled
on old strands of her
self rising like mug steam
from poetry
she wrote only three months ago.
Wide-eyed,
reading "when
one leaves,
the past is a fetish"
in rounded, running letters
bubbling up over each other -
a gravy she found
herself constantly stirring.

And sunsets,
dashed with pink syrup,
are a passion
('passion' being her
'word' - a skin-colored tattoo,
a branded prayer, an incanted torch)
Sunsets.
Sour golden orange laced
with strawberry wine.
Bittersweet.
Passionate.

Her.

you don't even take your shoes off when you come inside anymore.
you knock hesitantly at the door, and hope that you are greeted by anyone other than her.  
wiping your shoes off thoroughly on the mat before entering, making sure to leave no trace that you were even here.
if you do see her, just a nod of the head and a tolerative smile.
but you don'y ever take off your shoes anymore.
i guess that's because you aren't really considered a guest in the home that you wrecked.
i guess that's because it doesn't make things awkward every time you leave again.
i guess it just makes it easier to walk in and out of the door every time, without having to think too much about what you are leaving behind.
i guess you just want to constantly remind me that you are only here temporarily, never to stay again permanently. That you can just pick up and leave whenever you please.
i guess that's just it.
too busy to be bothered.
too absent to take off your shoes anymore.