My poetic senses will grow stale
The words escaping me each and every time
For I know what it’s like
To be immortalized
In love and heartbreak
To be worshiped
In song and in ode
To be penned
Too many times until you lose all meaning
This is not you
You are not ideal
You are as surreal as hurt
We are as casual as fiction
I will not romanticize you to the point of lucidity
And the tides will not turn when you arrive
The stars will not fall when you leave
The world will not stop for us
The words of love will not come
All because I will not love you like a writer

I picture you in a coffee shop. sipping on something hot. You're occupied on your laptop, there's a little book right next to it with a pencil (not mechanical). You seem very at peace but... concentrated. You look like you know what you're doing. Maybe you're writing an essay for school. Maybe you're a writer like me.

Whenever I see you in my head, I'm never involved. I'm watching you from a distance and I don't think you notice me. I don't think you ever will. It's up to me to make the first move. It's up to me to say something intriguing enough to peek your interest. By the time I meet you, I wont be so worried about what you may think of me (unless I happen to remember this moment, that is). I'll be sure of myself. I'll know who I am by then.

this morning

seems that was
the battle cry
for some movement
pushed out of our minds
by more insistent
and newer news

maybe it is the weather

maybe it is
some mid-life crisis
afflicting me
at the mcdonald's
while I use the free wifi

whatever it is

I will win
this battle too

just like
every other one
so far

Hold your hands in mine,
As the sun becomes engulfed

In the mouth of the bleeding
Dove, cooing in desperation

As the world grows darker
And dim, with hate and fear

The final moments lasting somber,
Lingering as cuts uncleaned

I have had bits of my heart taken,
pinched tight between greedy fingers
and shining white incisors
just to be squandered between cold sheets
and walls without windows.

I have given small pieces of myself
in a subtle show of willing naïveté
only to watch them wilt and die
without patient hands to tend to them.

I have lost so many essential parts
that there's not much left to give-
everything is mathematical
and there is no pain in letting go.
I am an expert in the field of
cool, calculated detachment.

But then there was you.
you came padding in softly,
asking for nothing,
taking nothing.
I gave you only
what I had the strength to,
and for the first time,
I could see the pieces
blooming and thriving
as they crawled over the trellises
of your wandering heart.

The empty spaces fill
with shadows of your voice
and a glimmer of your eyes
when you're smiling

and for the first time,
I am whole.

on good days
I carry a trash bag
around the yard
and pick up messes
others have left

I have a hole in my foot
where I stepped on a nail
and my hands are torn
my shoulder
is complaining loudly

but it is close to
growing time
my windowsills are filled
with dirt covering seeds

a few more fires
to burn the brush
and my neighbors
should be prouder of me