The poetic presence
Of absent Kate
Is missed
Of late

Style--go ahead talking about style.
You can tell where a man gets his style just
     as you can tell where Pavlowa got her legs
     or Ty Cobb his batting eye.

     Go on talking.
Only don't take my style away.
          It's my face.
          Maybe no good
               but anyway, my face.
I talk with it, I sing with it, I see, taste and feel with it,
     I know why I want to keep it.

**** my style
               and you break Pavlowa's legs,
               and you blind Ty Cobb's batting eye.

After all this time,
All this pain,
This stupid tears,
This broken heart,

It's always been you.

After all of my madness,
All of my ignorance,
All of my rejections,
All of my anger,

It's always been you. Still.

I just...
don't want you to hurt me again,
**carelessly.

Lilted notes upon rising tides
Drums of crashing waters shore
Water rippling and ocean sighs
A crescendo of a tempests roar

The screech of gulls taking flight
Melodious wind in water caves
Marvel here at the ocean's might
With the orchestra of the waves

See here the figures, singing loud
Harmony salty, sweet, and strong
Ocean creatures awed and cowed
At the hurricane of the siren's song

You are the truest part of me
When I close my eyes, it is not to sleep,
But to fade into a place where holding onto you keeps me sane and safe.
It is often called reality.
And any place where our love is stopped from flourishing
Is nothing more than an ill conceived nightmare.

I still have faith I'll wake up to a bouquet of your kisses, sweeter than any rose could hope to be.

dreams, they sit
peaking through open lids-eyes watching
sealed in a long pouch
an empty dream rests
black ink shines upon
its contents
unread and unearthed
silence compounds the
air between, kisses
never tasted, from
mouths never wasted
they walk past daily
fingers touching, eyes
purposefully avoiding
**** tear, it's there
she waits, collects dust
and creates for
an empty pouch
that keeps a dream