I've known
her body
before.

Every curve,
every
.f   .     .
.  .r   .
    .e     .
.    .c
   .    .k  .
.    .   .l
   .        .e
that dimly dot
her shape,
like the faint
night sky
of the city,
I've known.

But,
her body
is hers
and hers
alone;
I, nor
any
of her past
and
future lovers
can lay claim.

I will
never call her
min_e,
even should I
hold her hand,
happily,
into eternity.

I'd like to be to you
as the sun's rays,
shimmering through the mist,
are to the souls who
know life
for what it is.

If you're lucky
you'll bury your roots so deep in a place
that in leaving it'll keep a part of you,
and you'll be changed.

There are parts of me
scattered everywhere,
and sometimes
I can still feel their heartbeats.

Gracefully
the wind causes the willow leaves
to brush the ground, as gently
as I'd sometimes find my fingers
running themselves across your skin.

There is peace here,
as there has always been.
I'd like, when my years have expired,
to meet you here

ultimately, in shallow graves,
to let time and Miss Mother Nature,
the only god I know,
cover us in moss and wildflowers.

Our love grew from a seed,
so there is no reason not to plant it again.

She asked him, "What are you trying to be?"
and his silent answer told her he didn't know.

Sometimes it's enough
to raise your kids well,
to kiss your wife goodnight
in the house you built,
not just with hammer and nail
but through years of love,
affection, and living.

Sometimes it's enough
to grow old like your parents did,
to work towards the wrinkles around the eyes,
like your grandfather's,
molded by years of smiling and easy
laughing.

And, sometimes, it's enough
to be a good man.

Now that we are consumed by fear
we can turn to hate
and strike down anything that
does not look like us.

Us, the most powerful
nation on the planet,
with the biggest military and the
god-given dollar
in fear of a boy

with a clock.

And middle-America
lives in fear of any Muslim,
though I don't think they particularly like
'others'.

I've seen a call for the new crusades,
because the best answer to slaughter
seems always to be slaughter,
indiscriminate and brutal.

Our fear will destroy us.

The orange horizon blossoms
over the solitude of this moment,
the salty waves gently removing the sand
I dig my toes into.

I miss you, of course,
the ring weighing more heavy now
pushed against my clenched palm.
We all have promises we can't keep, I suppose.

"I'm sorry" was what I heard last,
though I wonder why.
Sorry is for something we don't mean;
your mind being made up, it's not necessary.

I'd prefer something like,
"I did love you, once.  More than anything."
without an explanation as to what happened
between then and now.

I cannot blame you, and I should not feel
too badly.  Having been loved
is one of the ultimate gifts, second only
to being loved forever.

I etch your face one last time, many times,
in the persistent waves, endless and constant.
I trace the outlines of your smile
in the sand, again and again.

Finally, when the orange glow faded to pink,
then black, I dug my fingers into the sand
one last time, and buried the ring.
There is not always shame in walking away.