Every instant comes before us in a rush
Every moment is a spark in the sky
The possibilities, so vastly infinite
I no longer can ignore that your life
Is tied to mine

A small red string connects us
Weaving through time and windows
Across streets and stars
To loop around our wrists
Always tugging
A destiny neither can deny

A moment, unrepeatable and endless
To forever echo in my mind
A temporary magic
Our existences collide

Every now and then

I find myself looking,

Looking at picture of you,

But there is not a day

That you dont come across my mind.

I try to replay my memories

But its not as simple as

Rewinding a movie.

I slowly forget the details

And what exactly was said

But as long as I can remember

Your face and voice,

Thats all that matters.

Sometimes it gets hazy and unclear

While your voice, too, begins to slowly fade,

But when I need you the most

Its as clear as can be.

Your blond hair and bright blue eyes,

I will never forget.

Because of you I have become me,

You have done what no one could.

Taylor, you broke me out of my shell

And because of that

I am the happiest person.

Know why?

Because I know you truly cared,

Cared for me and everyone you met.

That is why I can never forget

That blond hair and bright blue eyes

And because of you I am truly alive.

Thank you my #7,

I remember when
I first read Bukowski
I thought he was a
joke

his poems weren’t even
poems
they were just a bunch
of lines
and sentences
strung about like flimsy
washing telling
mundane stories
about insipid things

who was he to venerate Cummings

(as if he had any of Edward’s
profundity)

and who was he to write
poems about poets not
writing poems

or his simple lines propping
up grossly defective and out of
date words

like jeroboams

or how he’d drink
(four-fifths a gallon of wine)
then write more derivative
lines

who was he to live so long
and write so much

drivel
and
claptrap

to other poets’ literary
athleticism
our darling Chuck was a
pedestrian

he was born a pensioner
but never received a
pension

his poems flow
like a river
to
no
where

and after reading them
the first time
I withdrew
my poetic concern

but then I read them again
and then
again

and I
realised

I was in his poem’s
stories

and that foolish girl I knew
that dense and brainless
denizen of triteville
was the heroine of
his ‘splashing’

and his love for classical
his love for wine
and even his love
for Edward
matched even mine

but most of all
and here
my rhetoric ends

the moment I sighed oh yes
when I read his poem
yes
you guessed it
‘oh, yes’

if not for his whimsical
words
or his misaligned wit
love him for his
grasp of regret
and the sheer sentiment
he can emit

In the middle of the night I went to Wakelee and the wind whipped at my face
like the way your thrashing words would wash up on the shore of my mouth
and I'd spit them back out at you just the same if not a bit more eloquently.
At Granada Street I remarked on the place in the road that our bodies would meet;
this is where we collapsed because the way we hugged goodbye admitted defeat.
I didn't make it to behind the school where the tree we lounged underneath grew
as we sat as a lioness and a lion completely content to bask in the shade,
but I know after the fall and the winter, that tree still stands the same.
There wasn't time to drive by the house where you traced the tops of my fingers
after inhaling two lungs full of smoke. Where you noticed the way I wrapped my hands
around yours like a knot that couldn't be undone while you were in that state of mind.
But I saw the water we saw when we were ready to duck and cover and the way
the tides of a reservoir can be stronger than any other.
I sent each word out on a separate paper boat lit with a candle as the
"I" floated further than the rocks we threw
and the longest word was sent out second while
"love" drifted towards the beach and
"you" swam away from me.

True love can not be spoken
into a lover's ear.
It cannot be heard
by a most sweetest dear.
It cannot be given
in a box with a bow.
It cannot be taken
forcefully, or no.
It can though, be felt
by the sincerest of heart
Between two lovers
ten worlds apart
Who yearn for each other
and look to the moon
Knowing their lovers
are looking at it too.

i tasted you in a dream once,
and from the moment I woke up
until this day still,
everything has lost it’s flavor.