I am glad you
Have her now
She must fit
Better, I think
Her hands in yours,
Your bodies
Wrapped together.
We never fit,
We were
Two puzzle pieces
That look as if
They belong, and
You try, you try to
Force them to bend and
Fit together,
But you can’t.
Maybe I was too big,
Or you to sharp,
We almost fit.
I hope she does,
I hope she is your
Missing puzzle piece

i have always been a lover of words
novels, poetry, music, conversation
the syllables, sentences strung together
just right create a symphony that
makes my head spin and heart flutter

and your words...
they have become my favorite song

but for the first time in my life,
i am starting to see how
actions can be better than sounds

i love your words, but i want you
to show me what they mean

please, you've written beautiful music,
now dance with me.

He wants to read my poems,
he wants to see what
I have written about him.
I wonder why I am so scared
for him to see my thoughts
laid bare with no filters.
Maybe because I still have that fear
that he will run away
once he realizes how real this is.

the embers
danced just for me

who knew a
dying thing

could be so
beautiful

the Cape is a place
where time stops,
and all that moves
are the waves and breezes,
bicycle wheels and boats

frozen smiles are our
own person shadows.
the sun is not necessary.

it is funny how we
smile without
genuine happiness.
force the muscles to
turn and in turn
hope we look lively.

and there is the shadow,
it is in the empty smile
there is no light there,
but, light is not the
only beauty.

i love photos
with no smiles.
the ones with fierce glares
or grieving eyes.
give me a scene with
real life, anger, sorrow.

i would rather see that,
feel that,
than be met
with emptiness.

White, cold, wet, sharp
It stings, nips
It buries,
Buries you in its
Heavy blanket
Let it, do not fight
This cold coffin
Could be home
Let the sharp breaths
Stab your lungs
Allow the wetness to
Wash you away
Become the cold, the ice
Disappear in the white-
Be at peace.

Welcome, please come in
The entrance fee is one smile
After that, for every hour you stay
you owe me a laugh
This house runs on laughter

Be pure and joyful, please
stay as long as you'd like.

I work with many elderly people and they all sing the same song.
“Honey, whatever you do, don’t get old.”
They usually say this when a seemingly simple task is too difficult.
Their bones all sing the same the song too.
A stiff tune, no rhythm, off key.
Every movement, an awkward note in a song no one wants to sing.
It makes me realize how little my body has lived, and how ungrateful I am.
On the days when I “can’t” get out of bed,
I inevitably end up swinging my legs over the edge,
And hopping up, greeting a day of possibility with grumpiness.
Oh what my friends would give for my bones,
The joints that move them, the muscles that carry.
My body is an upbeat, joyful song I rarely let anyone hear.
I feel as if my body is heavy with the weight of the future on my chest;
Theirs is heavy with the past on their back.
But how lucky are they to have lived such long lives,
Lives full enough that their body can’t recover.
And how lucky am I to have one before me…
And though they can’t hop out of bed,
I cannot count the number of times they’ve danced with me while I am holding them up.
Can you imagine? Loving life so much that you’re willing to risk extra aching and pain,
All for a second of pure joy.
Just for a second, of two perfectly imperfect melodies, harmonizing.
Just for a second, two young souls,
Dancing.

I fear I am losing him,
to himself.

He is seeing all the things he wants to be.
I wonder when he'll realize,

that version of himself,
might not want me.

I've been trying to draw lately,
and failing miserably.
Trying to capture someone,
with only a pencil.

I keep trying to draw him and
I am not sure why.
I have plenty of pictures.
But this is different,
not simply knowing what he looks like,
but remembering it, repeating it.
It could be useful one day,
to have him like that.

Perhaps we should all try drawing our loved ones.
To never forget the curves of their faces,
the dimples, the freckles.
The imperfections the camera blurs.
So we will forever have them with us,
in our hands.
Simply brought out, remembered,
by a pencil.

The quickest way,
To a women’s heart,
Is through her ears.

When she hears
Hypnotic melodies,
Those sweet nothings.

Start with her ears
Soon her body follows
One with the sound.

Music will sweep
Her off her feet.
Twirl her around.

Find the right tune
She will always
Come back for more.

Get her moving,
In that blissful state,
Of just being
And she’ll be yours.

Just one person.
One person, one body.
Two hands, two eyes.
One bed.

Just two people.
Two people, two bodies.
Four hands, four eyes.
One bed.

Give me the crowded bed.
The tangled limbs,
Perfectly warm.
Let my sleepy eyes open,
To you.

he loves me, he loves me, he loves me, i sing
the song is on repeat in my head
he loves me, he loves me, he loves me
the melody swirls in my mind
he has become my favorite song

Artists capture moments.
They capture moments with patience, with perspective.
Artists capture moments in different ways.

A photographer will show you the beautiful butterfly,
resting on a flower.

The painter will show you what is out of frame,
a little girl staring in wonder.

And the poet will tell you how magical it was,
how the park quieted for a moment when the
butterfly flew and landed on her nose-

Then there it is - a photo, of pure joy.

Then all three artists, smiling in awe at this moment.
This small, precious moment.
One many would have missed.
But now is forever immortalized,
by observant souls.

you are the fruit on the table,
but I am the artist.
I take what you are, and
enhance. not just red no,
I give you white, green,
add the sun, the shadows,
the streaks. make the fruit,
more than itself.

you are the subject,
but honey I am the painter.
everyone knows,
a masterpiece,
never makes themselves.

Usually, when he
touches me, I
pull away

Today,
I leaned in
held on

My breath
became
thin

My stomach,
dropped,
tightened

It was as if
he was always
meant to be there

I wish I knew
what that
means

the birds are singing today,
so loud and beautiful as if to say
it is Spring remember, please
it is Spring

then the snow lands on my skin,
cold and wet, as if to say
I am still here, please
*don't forget me

The weight of everything I am not
sits on my chest every day.
The fear of falling tugs on my legs.

I am stagnant in this life,
and I am so stuck I cannot change it.
I am foolishly wishing for the
universe to notice me,
for a cosmic intervention.

Thinking that will give me purpose.
But I am so frozen,
staring in one direction,
I never look up.

Perhaps the stars are trying
to tell me something profound,
and I will never see.

And I think that is the heaviest,
and saddest burden to bear
of them all.

They speak of you everywhere,
Books, movies, friends
I hear you arrive when
Hands are held, or
Eyes connect,
Or even with small smiles,
Excited thoughts
You show up when the
Presence of one person,
Excites another, even if
They do not yet know,
Why they are excited
Your fluttering wings,
Remind them to pay attention
This one is special
You say while filling
Their stomach with nerves

I heard about you,
All of the time
Books, movies, friends
I never thought you
Would visit me
With the others,
You never appeared,
I waited for the flutter
That never arrived
Though tonight, there it was
The sensation in my stomach
Was more than welcome,
Thank you, you are right
He is special
So please,
My butterfly friends,
Stay a while

Both, are escapes.
I write when I need to express
When I am bursting with emotion,
I pick up the pen.

I pick up the brush, to distract.
Don't focus on the tears, no.
Focus on the eyes, lips, cheekbones.

My face is a landscape.
I plant flowers on my lids and lips,
Trim my eyebrows,
Grow my lashes.

A sense of accomplishment, at the end.
In the mirror my beauty shines,
A little more brightly.
I forgot why the tears visited.
My pink lips smile.

It is the bottom of the deep end
It is the highest apple on the tree
It is a perfect score on the test
It is a goal, a finish line
It is something we all like to think we have
It is the belief we can do anything
It is unique to every person
It is wasted by many
It is my biggest fear, that
I will never reach my own.

I am scared of
love, loneliness, and failure

I fear that after being
loved, and losing it,

The loneliness will
drown me

And that failure,
will stain everything

your kisses,
left smiles
all over my face

hours later,
they're still there

how can he not see
the narcissism of his tongue.
to think that if i ever,
poured my heart, my pain,
into a collection of
words, stories and poems
that if i ever
took the time,
to give myself like that,
it would be for him.

When I asked him what he was thinking,
he said nothing.

He can do that apparently,
just sit there, relaxing.
His mind a calm sea.

I am always thinking.
I cannot stop.

Waves and waves of thoughts,
always attacking me.
I fear one day, I might drown.

i love him in way
that let's me love myself,
and that is everything

he is a shadow of you,
I catch glimpses of you
in his words, his touch,
but he is not you,
you decided to leave
he wants to stay,
the only difference is
I would rather be
burned by the sun,
than safe in the shadows.

Makeup is an art.
Confidence is life changing.
Friends can be cruel.
Unconditional love is real.
Music is food for the soul.
Dance is prayer for the body.
Age can be insignificant.
Breakfast dates create an unbreakable bond.
Movies are best in bed with cozy blankets.
Car rides are made for singing.
Love is messy.
Families fight.
Families forgive.
Forever friendship, exists.

Don't shy away
Step in it
Firm, plant your boots
Squish, until your
Submerged
Slick, dark
Let it engulf you,
You are no longer,
You
You are Earth,
Dirt, roots, and worms
Stay a while, then
Grow, sprout
There, see the sun?
It is brighter now, yes?
Grow,
Up, out
There,
You've bloomed

I do not think home is a yellow house on a plain street.
I do not think home is the people in it either.
I do not think home is a town, or state, or country.
I do not think home is another person.
Home is not a building.
Home is not land.
Home is not them.
None of these things, are permanent.
Buildings fall,
Land dissapears,
People leave.
Home is not now, home is always.
Never leaving.
Home is a person. One person.
You. Yourself.
You are your own home.
Love it with everything you have.

they really do seem
like windows to heaven,
maybe that's the trick

once we get too close
we see they are nothing more than
fire and heat, scorching
anyone in their path

perhaps they are
portraits of Hell
put there by the devil
to tempt us

the dark side
can be so beautiful,
but it burns.

i've realized that every time
we get close to jumping,
i pull my toes off the edge of the cliff
the impending fall seeming like too much of a risk,
but you never let go of my hand,
I've always been ready to jump, you say
and you patiently wait for me to
inch back towards the edge,
never rushing the process
of instilling bravery back into my veins
it might take me a little while
before i am ready to jump
but as long as you keep
holding my hand
i'll believe you when you say
you're falling with me
and we'll catch each other.

Rise. Stretch your limbs. Let them crack. Ease them into the new day. New day. Freshen your eyes. Let them see. New day. Beautiful day. A good day. Put on your face. Fix your hair. Smile, smile. New day. Same you. Dress. There, a new you. Leave, go. School, work. Smile, say hi. Don’t keep to yourself. Other people make you happy. Remember? Drink coffee that helps. Eat, don’t forget to eat. Try to learn, you like learning. Now, dance. Let your limbs move. Let them feel. Let them be free. Then shower. Wash away the day. The meaningless minutes. The empty hellos. Now, lie down. Rest. Wasn’t that a good day? Sleep. Tomorrow, will be exactly the same.

Trains, cars, planes
Buses, bikes, boats
Always traveling,
You have reached
Your destination-
Now on to the next one
We travel to travel
Being in one place
Is boring, predictable
But constantly moving
Now that's freedom
But it can be lonely,
If you keep
Coming and going,
Who will greet you?
Who will miss you?
Maybe the trains and planes,
Will.

I am a psychic
A terrible teller of time

For I can see
a whole future
with you, a lifetime
Yet I cannot even
imagine,
What our next moment
will hold

your hand on my back,
tracing patterns on my skin,
our own secret language of hieroglyphics
fingertips dancing along my spine,
my mind starts to drift
I've gone somewhere else
a land of music,
and bodies swaying to the beat
I could stay here forever,
with you, and your dancing fingertips

is one of those colors that is so bright and happy,
yet there's an emptiness to it.
The kind of emptiness, only captured over time.
Time chips it away, as it does most things.
We are left with the hope of the past,
the faded walls or chipped nails of a color
that held so much in it, and lost it all
when we stopped looking.