i've been lost                             for so long
that it feels wrong                    to be home.
being at peace                           and to belong
seems abnormal,                      which seems insane.

i am finally home,                    a place  that i can be me
where i  am free                        and learn to grow.

home is                                      where my heart goes
my heart                                    always with me.

They are strangers now, separated by their worlds and walls.
There is no chemistry, no spark, nothing special.
They are simply strangers, sharing a couch.

One is autumn, one is spring;
one likes talking, and the other? Listening.

If walls could talk, they’d weave a tale so tragic.

In the beginning, he was sun, and she was moon.
At the ending, she was running, but he was leaving.

In the beginning, there are many things.
There is music, and laughter, and broken strings.
They have cooperation, and commitment, and promises.
Her mom gives them glasses, his mom gives them dishes.
She has her charcoals, he has his guitar.

At the ending, close to the ending-
There is his guitar, her laughter, they’ve broken things.
And that is all that is left.

Promises and glasses, dishes and hearts.
A year of trying and losing is written on the walls;
the wallpaper- peeling, the curtains- ripping.

He clears his throat, she stills- hoping.
“I’m sorry,” she hears, and it’s okay.
“I’m sorry,” she hears, “that it’s ended this way.”

I’m sorry, she hears. I’m sorry, that it’s ended this way.
I’m sorry, she hears. That it’s ended this way.

“It’s ended this way?”
“I’m ending it this way.”

The smell of coffee and black sharpie fill your senses
Dragging yourself out of bed, you wrap the sheet around your naked body
Your head hurts more with every movement, every thought.

The sticky note on the door
written in small, squished, boy-like writing
"I never promised you forever."

star of infant light within my chest:
shriek not as you do, shear not the rope
that wound me round this stake at self's behest
and lit the flame and poured the oil, alone.
for coring out the essence of the fruit -
that which by none is truly named -
will ruin it, tamed and mild the beast then broods,
never to recognise its place nor Wild retain.
cruelty impassable? no: taste of Truth,
like glistening auburn leaves, the chapel glass,
chopin breathing in your room, sunrise from roofs,
a boon from chance, air pregnant ere the fact.
deprive me, flickering star, of mystery fire
and watch the world compress (and i expire).

it emits a curious colour when i am summer
(a curiously on edge colour)
when nights of me are balmy
and thick with viscous laughing
smoke between the necks of ladies
such musically ivory necks of ladies

a colour
               (curiously) when
is Summer me? rests upon the
napes of trees in parks
where dirt and goldest
crush of dawn collide
with unmuscled violence

(this colour is me totally
ambiguous
                     and clear as
the rain dropless eaves of
heaven which are so ****
before the body of her
husband (the sun) who
in those mornings warmly
comes to her and penetrates
her smoothly scratching
the heaped body of the earth)

In summer curious,
colours are me
eyes, nose, knees, and hair
all hued
and erupting
gallons of fresh colour
and wade out into Summer
deep thighs burning cut by
the sharp petals of daffodils
and tulips.  i set running hot
colours from each razored
hewing of my skin and fall
upward into gabled satisfied
skies forever