there's a picture of sunflowers, my favorite
by far. one
leans apart from the congregation, rests
it's head on a wooden fence.
a visible sigh in it's face

it's posture affects --
and though time accelerates,
there is still gold in the lines of my face,
some days    the light catches

and warmth Ihold in my pockets
for days like today, I drizzle it on my tongue.

&my; insides are wrapped in dusty glow
from eons before
I began to wilt

there are pocket s
of time  we use
to crawl inside one another, sleep like we would
have never known the difference, before       /after

& our excuse is
the skin of our hands meeting that of our thighs and
we are all at once a giant        sigh, together

we come, beautiful,
in the moment s like this,

we shift,

like this
like this

, I want more
your cradling arms, your
pushagainst, small brush in passing
that sends a warmth crawling    up      my neck

as much as I am young & new
and pink and yellow just as bright as
a daisy! sometimes

I long, too
for the softness of longevity
like wind on my cheek, you

are almost all light, sometimes, I never
expected--

somedays, I'm sure the hue of your skin is
all filter, and I am just romanticizing,
as always

but the red in your beard is all the harshness in the world, sometimes.
and the sound of your laughter fills my head, echoes as if this small room
were an abandoned cathedral

and

your voice
the first prayer heard in a hundred years.

your skin is not animated as I would have   imagined, a little
freckled, bespeckled with blemishes but I don't
mind those -- only the way your mouth is so pink after kissing me,
only how your tongue blooms from the back of your throat.

you don't     differ from
any lover in any specific way, just
the after, and how I don't feel
cold. no, just
calm.

I hear no thunder, see no storm slow approaching,
but rain hits the pavement I stand on, which in it's solidity
impresses upon me the urge to run  -   but I won't just yet

left the lid off and it molded over
night, let it sit out a little too
long, the taste is a little off-- I hope you got my message.

my aimless fingers, are spinning webs of websof
whatif's
whatnow's
you

probably won't answer.

I have no direction, only
intentions and a bowl full of hope, Ihave
an extra   spoon.

a little past noon, now.

and I find I have trouble
taking you in all at once, there is
a pink-like hue   to all of your newness,
like I'm looking through
rose-colored glasses

like there is always a 'Theme For A Pretty Girl Who Makes You Believe God Exists' playing in the background when you cross the street or
stand, waiting for a friend.

I'm not sure whether it is you I miss, or
the coffee-stained pages of music (at least
I thought it was music)     we made when
we were together.

I often over-romanticize, but
I just thought I'd ask, just thought
I'd see if the breeze I felt was
from an open door or
from the inevitable cracks around the door frame.

I just thought--
I don't know.

oh god.

sliced open, out the heart,
the pink of the citrus fruit.

Ate it like a monster.

every sooften, a day will wash over     leaving me
a little paler, a little thin ner

for the most part I crush it like a can and bury it in my chest,
pretend it's a necklace, wear a face to match
I'll take breaths so deep, but my chest won't move
up    or down, some days

I cut it into pieces, dangle it from the ceiling and watch it glint in the  
sunlight, some days

I pull it over my head like a blanket, and keep the dayshine
at bay, leave my limbs pale a little longer

somedays
it's almost a comfort

some days, It's almost as if
I breathe it as it
breathes me and

the wind we create together carries us
in it's length across
the valleys of our        
small universe