sometimes i watch you,
wonder how you got to look like you do.

how many different you’s there could be
hold that soul
that way
but not quite like that.

and when wrinkles crease
around your clever lips
and crows feet sprawl
beside your galaxy eyes,
when silver claims your hair
(when all the wisdom shows,
when we’re finally old enough to be wise),

i will love you,
your old soul buried
in all this flesh.

i can’t wait until
we are renewed
and we get to find
each other
again.

because you started
a hurricane inside my
head and then you left

You, Sweet Sunshine,
are difficult to escape from--
as if I would ever want to--
but You make my words incohesive,
my breath just a sigh,
even and especially
when our boat tosses about this way.

I’ve traveled the world
from that passenger seat of yours.
And I’ve seen Hell with my own eyes--
it’s an empty cup, empty mind,
and empty bed.
Too much, not enough for this solemn,
crazy head.

The Most Genuine Poetry
I have ever had the pleasure to read
has been below Your eyebrows
while You sleep under turning irises.
I’ve been much deprived these past few months.

Apologies, as my interests have
recently been revived.
Those metaphors still line my sheets
where I used to tell my pillows we were
Adam & Eve.