Wherefore art thou my love?
I seek the kitchen, you're not there
I check the bathroom, you're not there either
In the gardens? Nope not there
Where can my lover be?

The gentle guide  easing close to me whispers
He's in your head my love
He's in my head....

Over the last few days
I have constructed a new basic description of myself:
I am the seventeen year old
poet with a white beard and baggy, bruised-looking eyes
who only ever uses his left hand when playing badminton.

To only hope that one-day,
For even a moment it will be okay,
The game we call life might come into play.

Being able to look in any direction around you,
Knowing and holding true;
Always and forever this is your world too.  

The strength to at any time turn your head,
Not for even a moment worrying what will be said,
Ridding finally of all that nonsense society has fed.  

Longing to be a person, who is whole,
I know now all I must do is play my role.  

Not seen in a movie, nor read in a book;
It is now time I open my eyes and just take a look.  

Looking where I have been,
Holding onto where I am,
Striving to make a difference in where I will be,  

The best things in life don't cost a thing,
If I write I song, I then too will get to sing.    

Everyday a new journey, a new thought,
Great things in life never have to be bought.  

Each step taken, towards feeling again whole,
I smile and then hum the melody that is my soul.
                                                           ­                                  -yael sara neubauer

He was limp
And small.
Smaller than I remember
But I remember
Clear as day
When I held him for the first time.

The coarse fur scratched my skin
And reminded me
That gentle things have
A roughness
About them.

The heart that pounded in his chest
Was one that would remind
Me what life sounded like
When my own
Was
Very
Nearly
Silent.

His eyes were endless
And a thousand souls could have found
A home within them.
But he just had one.
And the one he had,
It was plenty enough.

I sift my fingers through the
Coarse
Gentle fur
Across the hollow and
Silent ribs.
Unashamed at the wetness
Of my cheeks.
With these words, over and over,
In my head.

You wonderful creature.
You beautiful, beautiful beast.

my eyes
ask you silently.

i dont want the answer
the way i want you
but i can't
help myself.

can't help but
imagine that
this is the last time
you
will grace
me.

i can't remember
a life
without you and the
heady suffocation
of your
gut-curling, heart-pounding
presence.
you've clean-slated me
the way
broken glass can
purge human vision,

your intoxicating soul wrapping me up
in its heated hollowness,

in that warmth
which keeps me up at night
and makes me
wish i could
drown
in the heavy circle
of your body.

and i can't imagine why
i fear
your vanishing
when more often than not

you,
your soul,
and your broken glass

are
the stuff of my
haunting dreams.