She said she would be willing to get a matching tattoo
with me. A flower permanently imprinted on our skin.
She likes orchids, I like lilies. And even after moving
away she understands my addictions; growing old,
the rain, Team Gibbs, bats, my love for pistachios
and maybe even my need to come back home.

As much as I love Ohio, it’s nice to go home
every once and awhile. Saving up for my tattoo
is not easy when I keep spending my money on M&M;’s and pistachios,
especially when my mother isn’t there to pinch my skin
and tell me to put my wallet away. She’s not old—
but I certainly feel like I am when she says she’s moving

away from me. I toss and turn and move
in my sleep thinking about how home
will never be the same without her. The cats are getting old;
their time is coming. Maybe we should get a tattoo
of them instead of flowers—light and dark brown skin
warm and cuddled together, munching on pistachios.

I remember when I first became addicted to pistachios.
It was a church Christmas party and the wine was moving
closer to my hands. Mom said I could, as I felt the buzz of my skin
react to my fourth glass. She shook her head and drove me home
laughing at my sneaky attempts to act sober. A tattoo
was out of the question; what would I think when I got old?

Our relationship now has changed, intimate friends never too old
to dance or talk about our *** lives, throwing pistachios
at each other or plan out our future tattoos.
I am going to miss her, and she me, as she moves
on with her dreams, starting over, building a new home
In a place we’ve never known, but always in the same skin

that I have loved my whole life.  A soft, toasted skin
that has been passed down to me for my days of old.
Born, nurtured, taught and loved in my mother’s home;
home-cooked meals that surpass the freshest of pistachios
so I would one day learn how to cook. No matter where she moves,
my mother will remain deep in my heart, my skin—like a tattoo.

She gave me my skin and approved of my tattoo,
provided me with a home complete with pistachios
and an old promise: her heart is unmoving.

An empty park picnic table
cooled by the light,
whispering breeze,
spotted by the burning
life-giving sun.

I see us there.
chatting,
laughing,
enjoying each others company
in this never-ending summer.

I see myself
dressing up as the wife,
laying out a picnic basket
and table cloth.
Pouring iced tea
into a chilled glass,
Watching the condensation
slide down your fingertips
as your throat
gulps in the refreshment.

I lay a blanket
on the grass,
inviting you to come sit.
We lay.

And that chuckling breeze
picks up
and lifts the whole of
my 1950s homemaker dress.

You smooth it back down,
lowering your hand on my hip.
The wind has stopped,
but you keep smoothing away…
down my thighs,
across my backside,
up my back,
until my head is
cupped in your hands
nearing closer to your face.

I would not call it a kiss,
because a “kiss” is too
short a word, too precise
and too emotionless
to fit this phenomenon.
You embrace me fully
leaving no passion unaccounted for,
no ounce of me left untouched.

I succumb to your embrace
and we start to make love when…

A car horn beeps.
I blink.
Look around, and remember
that I’m sitting in a
library parking lot
looking at an empty picnic table.

What is love?
Murasaki would say it was an obligation,
a sort of duty
where the rules
say to bury one’s emotions
and succumb to the overpowering ***.

Mian Mian embraces the sexuality
of her culture. Arguing that love
is the force behind drugs and emotion.
It is not the government’s obligation
to dictate the author’s form of rules
on writing a novel that serves its own duty.

How does Black Jade feel about her duty?
Despite her lover’s sexuality
and his matriarch’s ruling
of marrying well even if he does love
her, the family cares more of their obligation
then of their prized sons emotions.

Coco lived by her emotions.
The sickness of Tian not her duty
as it would have been in the old days. Lui’s obligation
to turn in Shiba overruled by rough ***
and her quest for painful love
in a time that disregards all form of rule.

Peony was one who broke the rules
but was rewarded for it. Unless it’s Peony #2 because her emotions
got the best of her when she fell in love
at the wrong time. It was not her duty
to see the play nor feel anything ******
in the Three Wives Commentary; this, her obligation.

Was it Abe Sada’s obligation
to castrate her lover and make her own rules?
Madame Mao too knew all about ***
and succumbed to her emotions
when her duty
was no longer to love.

From emotional red chambers with rules
on obligatory ***, the cycle of East Asian
love patterns has yet to fulfill its duty.

liquor,

penetrates the air
creeps under the door
settles on the breath

of a witch.

hissing, glaring, staring, kissing
on someone, anyone who walks by.
She spits fury and frustration
in all directions.

slurred words, glazed eyes,
heart of a monster…

I enter the Cave,
ignorant and vulnerable.

Through the dark,
her burning, malignant
eyes seek out a goat.
A blood vessel.
her past victims
scattered in pieces across the
beaten ground.

Pulp. Mangles. Tortured. Suffering
from the poison of her bite,
the remorseless dismissal of them just
inches from death.

She wants them to cling on…

I’ve heard stories.
Seen skeletons.
They warned me to stay away,

They call her badger,
snake, bloodsucker…
They’re convinced no one can survive her bite.

Well,
I don’t need liquor to mask my scent
or get blood in my eyes.
I’m from out of town,
and this ***** is about to meet the Wolverine.

Bartender,
Pour me a drink
Bourbon on the rocks.

Why is this music so loud?
so flashy and colorful.
Lovers dancing,
Trumpets blaring
The bass bumpin’…

people are having fun,
enjoying themselves.

I dare to let a smile creep across my face
as the ashes fall from my cigarette
My eyes close as the music
grows softer but the people still dance…
smoke clouds the air as the colors dull into the night…

on the beach
with a drink and a smoke,
the reggae band pumpin’ it out,
the guitar wailing,
keyboard buzzing

people are laughing
enjoying themselves
and living life –
no regrets

funny –
I remember life having responsibilities  and being stressful.

A long drag from my cigarette
and I close my eyes as the tropical breeze
turns back into a cloud of smoke

my eyes open –
the band still jammin’
the bar jammed just as much

the smile’s gone as I sigh
oh look – Billie Holiday’s up next
pour me another drink Bartender.
the night is young
and I don’t wanna go home.

There’s a stain on my lips
and I want to share it with you.
You always said you love wine,
which do you prefer:
Red or White?
Well you’re getting Red tonight.
Come over here
and let me sing to you,
let my lips
brush against your ear,
let my lips ****** you.
I want to feel your heart beat
faster.
I’ll let you feel mine.
Come over here and
kiss me.
Taste these lips of wine.
Slowly, gently
feel the space between us disappear.
Let’s create a space of our own,
our palace, our playground
our home.
Come over here and
touch my lipstick stain.
Let your fingers explore,
feeling, shaking
trembling on my skin.
I kiss them one by one.
How’s that taste?
Let’s do it all
over again.

she wants to be a child again.
splashing in puddles with her
rain boots on.
Now he holds her hand but
stands five feet away when she sees a puddle.

jealous looks falling like Buckeyes.
Knocking her on the head
so rude – those **** squirrels.
apparently things are changing,
she’s not even aware.
splashing and laughing just as
she did yesterday,
just as she will tomorrow…
if she has the time.

she didn’t want him to
see her cry.
He has before, but
each time feels different
and each time she tries to be strong.
lips quivering, her vision becomes
blurred as she furiously bats
her lashes desperately trying
to stay strong…
but no.
a drop, two drops of weakness
fall.

she confesses everything,
more weakness exposed.
it hurts…
don’t fall…
don’t fail…
These words cannot possibly
do her passion justice.
They were made to be together.

I cannot write about it anymore-
the shame,
the fear…
How can I tell anyone when my secret lays
crudely hidden inside
the trunk at the foot of
my bed, camouflaged by music
sheets and the dusty Playboys
that my brother passed down to me.

I never asked for them anyway.

I hide
in self-isolation
safe from the unknowing uncaring
judgmental bloodthirsty oblivious
eyes of Mechanicsville,
Maryland.
Maybe I could catch a horse ‘n buggy
and work my worries away—

No—
they would sense my disease
and throw me to the wild dogs;
more like Labs and Puggles
but who’s keeping track.

I can’t even walk the halls anymore.
Ostentatious girls smiling, winking, tossing
their hair back—
pathetic.
I keep my eyes to the floor.
If I allow myself the luxury
of looking up I might
see their arms…

Firm, rigid with muscle
and that just leads to the shoulders
and neck-
broad and thick,
trembling with laughter—fear
skin so smooth—kissable—no
the face…

eyes back on the floor.
Building Service Workers missed a spot
I say to myself as the
ache below my waist
slowly dulls away.

Isolated. Home.
kickin' back, watchin’ TV with the bro.
Innocent stuff till he channel surfs
and gets called into the kitchen to wash
his dishes just as the vile remote decides
to land on MTV.
His lazy *** better wash
those dishes, cause I am not
about to dry my hands out
for him; lotion’s getting expensive these days.

***.
That man on the screen has a nice one.
No shirt—
shoulders muscle back ****
calves fingers hands arms
neck hair face –

I’m aching again,
Gotta get out of here before my
brother sees me and calls me
a girl for the way I run.

I need to get out of this life—
this isolation…

College.
I requested a single.
Living with another man would be
the death of me.
I spend my weekends with my
iPod in my ears, drowning out
the masculine shouts and laughter
of frat boys playing Ultimate
Frisbee on the Hill.
however—
I do not allow myself the
        luxury of looking…
        broad necks rippling shoulders
sweaty shirts toned legs
beautiful faces –
I can’t stare or they might
invite me to play.

There are support groups—
safe havens and potential
friends who will understand.
Maybe.
Just maybe.

First meeting.
So many men –
understanding smiling beautiful—
I think I’m gonna come back.

He welcomes me.
asks how my first year is going –
I’m not afraid to look at his face.
our fingers touch as we walk back to
our dorms—
—and I don’t feel so isolated.

I can finally throw out those dusty
Playboys now.

smooth.
****.
the calm and sultry
seductive melody.
Love.
unforeseen,
un-foretold,
unexpected –
yet oh so desired.
tantalizing and methodical,
the smiles and teasing
make one shiver,
breathe deep
at the thought…
the memory…

So smooth.
slow and melancholy,
uplifting only when it suits…
suit –
elegant yet worn.
scarred but not scared.
The song of everlasting…
love?
romance?
Are they in love?
or falling,
fading apart?

so smooth.
so ****.
Eyelids close
and heads sway.
smoke lingers,
and lovers dance.
shivers return
as well as the doubts.
Breathe deep
at the memory.

Ro-
mance is in the air – or
so they say at this time of year in
the heart of the Thousand Islands.

No-
thing quite welcomes summer
like the morning smell of seaweed fresh-
ly caught on some vacationer’s

pro-
pellers - excess water
draining from the boat’s engine, creat-
ing sporadic puddles up the

street.
I see no romance in
Alex Bay – too many tourists; too
old, too young – No young lovers. Not

E-
nough privacy in the
souvenir shops or bustling streets for
young lovers to embrace and watch

the
sun set or rise off the
Dock of the Bay. Mother duck leading
her ducklings towards the bread crumbs the

old-
er generation has
cast aside for them in the fishy
water. Kids just don’t know what ro-

mance
is anymore. Perhaps
because Spring is ending and not be-
ginning. I must find the romance

in
these islands. There was a
story passed down through the years of Boldt
and his lady and Hart Island.

He
re-named it Heart Island
and with his millions he made it just
that. A castle he built her, a

Play-
house for the kids. Gardens
and walkways, a Yacht House, a Tower.
All this he built for his love.

Can
you imagine, waking
up every morning to the smell, the
sounds of an island called yours? In

the
midst of the St. Lawrence,
the freshness, the cool, the sun beating
down on your grass, your estate. How

ro-
mantic an idea.
Of the one-thousand, seven-hundred
and ninety-three islands, this one

be-
longs to you and your love.
To travel by Ferry each day to
the Bay, to dine every night at

Cav-
allario’s Seafood
and Steak. Oh the wonders of Alex
Bay – I found romance after all.

I used to speak French
to protect myself.
impressing those around me
with grammatically incorrect insults
hidden behind a smile
to make them think I just
said something beautiful.

C’est la vie.

My mother lied to me.
My father hid his lie from me.
My brother thought he was lying to
me when he was really
telling me the truth.

I used to draw blood in order
to feel something when in
actuality I was feeling
everything.

I have a notebook, a pen
and a bag of pretzels; the
tunnels of light to escape these
walls.

A wall I can’t see.
Strangers I don’t trust.
Friends I send away…

Maybe I should have spoken
Spanish, that way more
people would have been
able to call my bluff.

Funny.
I prefer Spanish food over French.
Save for Wine – Tequila makes me sick.

I hate teenagers.
I’ve discovered this in the past year.

Maybe it’s time to learn a new language.

Disguises.
Masks concealing the visage
of the man I love.
Icy blue, forest green, earthy brown eyes
stare
glance
peer out, saying nothing.
Their disguise.
Hideous horns,
Grotesque grooves,
Fictitious fangs all make up their loathsome personas.

The smells; rotten odors, musky remnants of vile misdoings-
disguised by a ring of violets
rung about their necks
Their perfume is strong, but cannot mask their sins.

It’s a circus.
Full of games, entertainment and wonder.
No tricks are explained, no disguises revealed.
An applause – and the lights go down,
the audience goes home.
He sleeps with his mask on.
He sleeps with a smile.

“When do you feel sexiest?”

kisses liquor-infused whipped cream
and a broken remote.
A new comforter.
red and blue blinds
throbbing beyond my eyelids—
“you’re falling asleep”
no I’m not
Chest hair curlicues
iron on the floor
cement block with contact lenses
and condensation from early morning.
kisses sighs fresh sheets
and a broken remote.

“Get naked”
all naked or just a little naked?
new haircut stolen DVD’s kisses
on cocoa butter skin—
where’s the remote?
Nighttime spasms.
Legs and diaphragm.

kisses liquor skin wet –
sweat and strawberry flavored love.

A,B,C, or D?
definitely A.
Missionaries.
Sensual.
Another movie and a
fresh pair of sheets.
kisses liquor and a
broken remote.

pounding feet
quiet footsteps on the stairs
thunderous drone
pitter patter down the hall
it stops.

a clap
a sigh
bat of an eyelid
and a smile.
ingredients to a successful woo.

endless numbers
beer on an empty stomach
crying in the shower
nonchalance.

a laugh
a hug
don’t stop the music
dance the night away
ingredients to a great weekend

aching head
tired fingers
sore body
it all starts here.

pounding feet
whispers in the staircase
a pitter patter in a heavy heart
it stops.

I wasn’t vulnerable to you
I wasn’t hypnotized by your eyes
Your smile did not make me swoon
but I was oblivious to your lies

I had just recently thrown out a delicious cake –

only weeks later I am finding tiramisu,
not exactly in a pastry shop…

but nevertheless it was delectable
unbelievably creamy, with just the right amount of espresso to give it a kick.
Oh how I devoured its luscious flavor,
most people say to eat slowly,
take in every aspect and cherish every bite.

Don’t get me wrong – I usually do…
I try to anyway….
if there’s a fresh made dessert,
and if I’m hungry,
I am going to want it.

Only after having eaten this tiramisu
and licked the plate clean,
did I find out that it was made with spoiled crème…

I should have known.
I’m lactose and tolerant anyway.

It was so good –
unlike anything I had ever had before…

You came out of nowhere,
your charm and personality perfected
after hours of practice.
Well I am sorry to say that it worked.
You won.
******* I hate regrets,
but your game is done.
still, it’s gonna be awhile before I’m over this one.

The smell of Mexican food
compels me up the stairs
despite the fact that I was headed
there anyway.
Musty carpets
mingled with pollo
and pico de gallo –
I think it’s comforting.
3rd floor.
I peer down the hall
intimidated by its infiniteness.
it would seem wider
were it not for the paintings
covering every inch of wall…

Civil War revolutionaries,
Nefertiti’s chambermaid
reading hieroglyphs,
a snowy afternoon,
slaughtered African wildlife
and I’m only at Suite 302.

Maybe I should have entered
through another door –
unless that’s where I exit…
if I even exit at all.

Watercolor,
photography,
the asking price
out of my range.

Where does this hallway end?
I saw the beginning –
at least I thought it was,
hidden by another staircase.

I’m afraid to stop –
306 –
less these dried
color messages wrap me
in the minds of their creators.

I once wrote a poem about
a piece of art…
Deep, thoughtful and questioning
the meaning of life.
I read it to the artist.
They said they were inspired
by pop cans at the grocery store.

My soul shattered that day.

Putting the pieces together in
Suite 314.

flying into Chi-town
Altoids of various sizes
litter the scenery.
An artfully constructed
playset thrown off
by the skilled placement
of refreshing breath mints.
Maybe they’re off brand,
or perhaps ecstasy,
though I don’t see any
smiley faces or hearts.

I like to look for high school
tracks as we descend.
Forget the football fields,
they’re far less interesting.
Mostly black, though
sometimes gravel, dirt
or red and even
purple once,
though not in Chi-town.
The homestretch extending beyond
each curve;
no hurdles in sight
much less a sand pit.

A mile inland
there is some sort of water.
The body scattered
and split like some
kind of man-made accident.
shallow sand banks
invisible from the ground look
like dead whales.
floating (submersed) there
like lifeless, sandy corpses.
Maybe it’s because of my “Free *****” spree,
but I see whales.

I’ve never been to Chicago,
only in and out of the airport
and catching glimpses of what I
can see through the windows
of Midway.
My good friend has flown with
me once, but we parted at the
big city.
Have you ever wondered why
cities are built like mountains?
the tallest buildings in the
center with everything
else leading up to it?
Kinda like that Verizon commercial
with the magnet and lead…
Maybe I’ll Google it
to find an answer.

There’s a private airport a
little closer.
(Too good for Southwest to land
there). Private jets and runways
too classy to have a White
Castle across the expressway
from it.
They have cornfields.

Even closer now.
The houses larger with matching
sheds and identical roves.
Almost all have pools, makes
sense for a windy city like
Chi-town.
Some are covered and
nasty for the impending
winter. Playsets and driveways,
minimal trees.
I wonder if the children
ever get scared when
the shadow of a 700 series
darkens their windows and slides.
If they look up and feel warmth
in their Children’s Place pants,
throwing their ice cream to the
wind and catapulting into
the comfort of their father’s
arms and then
write about it 13 years
later after they get off that plane.

“Thank you for flying with us
today, please come back and
see us soon.”

A desperate cry for profit

(after Nikki Giovanni)

I tried to love them. Those mag-
gots that kept eating away at me.

They couldn’t wait for me to die,
crawling and chewing like it

wasn’t nobody’s business. They
said why don’t you go ahead and

die, just a waste of sin and liquor
anyway. Shielded by the absence

of light I let myself try,
try an’ love them. But

they crawled and crawled
until my eyes fell out.

Just up and fell out so I
couldn’t cry no more so

I up and let myself go. Those
maggots laughed and

laughed underneath Crocodile tears.
But I couldn’t love them. They

weren’t real people any-
way. Just no good worms

trying to hurt me.

She told my legs to take a bound across
the tennis courts. I thought, No problem mom,
and off I went to show them how it’s done.
First right then left but – ****! A shooting pain
in my left ankle. ****! I thought, not now
not here. Another injury this year.
Before it was my knees, and now the day
before a meet my ankle decides to
give out on me. Ma’ Musbach said
to not worry, but knowing me – I did.
The meet, it came and they were all at ease.
While I warmed up the pressure showed but I
needed to push myself so I did not
back down. This challenge with my body scared
the living hell out of me but I’ve done
it all before. They called my name. The air
was still. Breathe; one and two and three – I land.
Applause. I breathe in deep, astounded by
my luck. I had performed and not just that,
but well! My leg was fine, there was no pain
found anywhere throughout my ankle. And
I was for sure not going to let go
of that ‘First Place’ I had dreamed of for so long.

A doorbell.
Such an extravagant invention.
You press a button,
creating a beckoning sound
in which your host
is obliged to answer.
It’s an attention getter.
Much like a telephone ring.
Someone wants to contact you.
They call,
your phone rings,
it is your duty to pick up.
A connection.
Not unlike a letter in the mail.
Long distance communication.
My words,
full of sentiment and longing.
A way of speaking
to you.
So why aren’t you responding to any?

the echo,
the waiting,
the distance
between us…

A grain of sand.
a lifeless, heartless
insignificant grain of sand.
undisturbed for so many years.
Complacent in its spot
with the others.
A few friends for company,
even a lover for those cold nights.
One day
the ground starts trembling,
monstrous roars of beasts
pierce all complacency.
A stampede and the grain of sand
is lost.
Cold, disturbed.
Where is she?
What does it matter,
she’s still insignificant.

She wants to dance.
Dance until she can barely feel her knees
and it's impossible to wipe the sweat from her brow.

She wants their love to be
eternal.
Exactly how they croon and
whisper to each other.
Waking up to him each and
every morning.

She wants to write.
Nothing infamous, but enough
so that she is recognized every so often.
Enough to keep money in her pocket.

She wants her own life.
Music, happiness, success,
love...

The worry-free American dream.
Why does it have to be a dream?
Why not a Monday?

Maybe some day...
She'll wake up on that Monday.

A broken vase,
shattered remains of an artifact
so precious and fragile.
The carpet
now dangerous, taunts
innocent feet
with its magnificent gleam
of colored mirror,
fluorescent garbage,
eye-catching horror.
It seduces,
knowing that when in reach
this carnivorous plant
will snare its prey
within its evil, bloodthirsty
and treacherous claws.

It was just her luck
to walk by and witness the sight.
Trapped, she tried to clean it up.
Unforgiving lacerations scar her
innocent hands,
gentle fingertips.
She cannot cry,
it will only make more of a mess.
A woman can only stay strong for so long.
She didn’t cause this catastrophe,
merely attempted to fulfill her civil duty.
Do not blame her,
the glass is already doing that.
She works dutifully in pain – her attempts are vain,
for the carpet will never be the same.

I am your paper doll
Cut me loose from my holding cell
And stand me up straight.

Aren’t you jealous of my perfectly drawn lips?
My high cheekbones
And dream body…

Dress me up
Fold the straps over my shoulders and
Make me beautiful.

I am yours
Yours to love
Cut and
Fold

Oh dear – it’s raining
It’s ruining my dress.
The rain pelts my paper body
As I start to soften.
My colors start to run
And I am no longer beautiful.
Look –
I’m melting
I’m used and ruined.

Throw away this paper doll,
She’s used up and worthless

I used to be yours
You loved me
You wanted my clothes
My body
But they were all just paper.

I was yours.
Yours to cut and fold,

And now throw me away.

Breakage.
A pounding,
drumming
off – key
non-rhythmic beat
desperately searching
for any kind of
recognizable melody,
in my head.
Nonsensical.
It doesn’t make sense
and yet it keeps
occurring on a
regular basis
that one might
think it makes sense.
Silence.
the absence of
a blinking message
no typing
no smiley face
not even a
sad one,
one might think
it was too quiet
in here.
Screams.
pounding
off-beat
silent
sad
screams.
It hurts
but no one can tell.

Except by the blinking of my eye.

“Kiss me Kate”
Obediently she beckons to his call.
Her fire, not so much doused as
in need of more fuel

the retraction of claws,
a smile instead of bared teeth
purring instead of a growl.
Has this beast been tamed?

Mais non!
Elle simplement joue un jeu avec l’amour.
Pourquoi vous demandez ?
Je dis pourquoi pas.

L’amour est un jeu après tout…

Look through the eyes of a hero.
There is fire
There is darkness
There is splendor.

He fights.
Clashes of the sword with his cowardly enemies.
flashes of light
screams of the wounded
groans of the dying.

It’s all in his valor.

His notorious armor and rank,
all mirror the faces of those whom he has slain.

One last clash,
one last swipe of his sword
and the blood that begins to pool
is that of a hero…
His blood.

a flash of light
a scream
a groan from a dying hero

His mausoleum is erected,
his valor etched in stone
as the battle rages on

More clashes
More blood
More heroes.

The picture is aging
The corners no longer crisp –
A tear in one side
and the memory falls to the floor

Who will claim that spot on the wall?
Who will look through the eyes of a hero now?

interconnecting cords
intertwined in her chords, quite accurate.
overfilled, over colorful,
cramped, spacious,
just right.
All these games and movies
foretelling our goals and dreams,
fantasies and fears.
Kisses, embrace…
laughs, scream
for me,
I love to hear my name.
Never forget me,
hold on tight,
the moons are shining bright tonight.

You said the sweetest words to me…
And I was speechless
(imagine that, a poet lost for words to an artist)

It’s a good thing you weren’t there to see my blush and
Schoolgirl grin painted across my face –

Or maybe you should have been…
Perhaps that was the best response that I could come up with.
Perhaps my Luther Vandross reply to your
Louise Scrymgeour was inadequate
Only because I was not prepared.

That’s it!
I was not prepared…
Not prepared for the unending, uninterrupted,
And unprecedented love you show to me every day

I was not prepared to fall so deeply,
So passionately and irreversibly in love with you…
To crave nothing more than the scent of your skin,
Those breathless, unconscious kisses on my neck in the depths of
The night when  we shift our bodies in our sleep-
The sleep that we succumbed to long after we’ve exhausted the stores of
Physical love and desire
For hours on end…
The soft yet muscular feel of your skin
As I run y fingers lightly over your chest,
My head on your shoulder,
Eyes absorbing your beauty,
Gazing off into warm space
Fantasizing about the future –
Our future
And the happiness that you tirelessly provide.

I was not prepared
To feel my heart ache
When you sobbed in my arms,
My tears mixed with yours,
Fusing our pain, struggle,
But also our understanding of one another.
I wept for you,
For me,
But all the while knowing better days would come

I was not prepared
To feel so lonely after being separated only 7 days…
The phone and computer only allows me to see…
Your face…your words…

I was not prepared to crave your smile,
Your laughter and ability to inspire such humour in me

Your touch
Your feel,
Your taste…
Oh how I yearn to be surrounded by your warmth once again…

And still…
It has only been 10 days…

I was not prepared
To find myself so vulnerable
And yet so incredibly safe at the same time.
You encompass me,
Surround me,
Complete my fantasies of Prince Charming,
My knight,
My lover,
My best friend,
My meant-to-be.

I have found my words,
But cannot wait to lose them again.

safety-
is knowing that not even a bullet could penetrate the barrier of your arms
they hold me and warm my body
protect me from the outside world
and cover my eyes when the scene is too scary
your hands-
pull a blanket over me when I’m cold
and stroke my arm just because.
they cup my face so you know I’m there
and play with my fingers for companionship

Sans toi-
I wouldn’t have the strength to dodge a bullet
nor could I be warm at night
without you – who would hold my hand?

I hate to call this falling
for when you fall,
you’re scared
and fearful of what  will happen when you land

I hope I never land
I want to continue…whatever this is…

flying,
escaping,
feeling,
loving…

The shivers that travel up my arms,
back
and neck
when he looks at me that way…
when he stares,
whispers,
touches…

Tell me how I am supposed to feel,
I know what it feels like to fall –
but this is not falling.

He smiles
She blushes

He touches her thigh
She playfully smacks his hand

He stares
She turns away

He reads
She listens

He says ‘I love you’
She kisses him

He takes off her shirt
She throws her ******* to the floor

He sleeps
She says ‘I love you’

He wakes up
She says ‘Goodbye’

helpless to act.
empty bucket
next to a raging fire
burning
slowly,
swiftly,
painfully.
landscape ashen,
barren and cold
yet smoldering in embers.
Empty cries
echo off the sky.
Empty bucket in my hands
as the flames lick at my feet.

Press your skin to mine
I want to feel the music
of your heart
pulsate in my veins
Pushing

your hand to mine.
I’ll trace the outline
of your fingers, as
I feel your eyes
Touching

my soul. They play
and court my blushes
daring me to break a smile.
All I want is you
Seeing

all of me. Take me.
Do not let me go
until we’ve exhausted ourselves
and our kisses are
Clinging

and desperate
attempts to stay connected
to each other.
Please. I know you are
Hearing

my words for they are
all for you. Only you.
All I want,
All I can ask is for you to not stop
Kissing

me.

I cannot give you everything
but I can give you all that I have,
all that I am

when you look at me the way you do
I can look back,
allowing my thoughts to pour
from my eyes and
wash over
the gap in between us.
When you read them all one by one
you will not find any lies,
only the secrets behind the ties
that I have woven between yourself and I.

You will feel the warmth of the passion
that we make
and reveal the joy that has erased
the whole of our heartache

There is nothing that I could keep from you
nor anything that would cause my heart,
soul or body to be untrue

At the same time,
there is nothing that I could say,
to express the fiery sentiments within me
that I wake up to everyday

it was nothing
that turned to something
that is now everything

I know that I should not rush
but when you look at me the way you do,
I see the sparkle of a speed demon
always up for a challenge

You are welcome to read my mind
as I know you so often do
for beneath the laughter, blushes and sighs,
it’s incredible how much I really care about you
feel free to ask the when’s and why’s
because there are no lies behind these eyes

“While the woman sleeps and dreams of all that breaks, come into this house of many rooms”

There’s you and me
and the bats in the belfry
you think they’re blind
but they can see

“There is another language being spoken here, a tongue that emanates from white clay, fire, the oils of many skins…”

Crack of sun and the bats fly away
It’s too bad,
I wanted them to stay
but they don’t do well during the day

“The woman hears this language always, even in her sleep, because she is guilty, and because those who speak to her are never silent.”

My scars you try to understand
as you caress them with your hand
but alas,
you are merely another man

“Something in your awareness might start to take shape, something vaguely unsettling. Perhaps you shouldn’t touch anything…”

The bats did not cause the scars
nor did my broken heart
but as you try to love me,
my mind is torn apart

“But no. Somewhere the woman still sleeps – she is weeping now…come back when you’re ready.”

In the distance
lies a cascade of
nurturing waters
blessing all within
breathing distance.
Were you to travel up
its rivers and find the source
your feet would grow weary with ache.
For in this story,
the source of this majesty
should not be found.
The travel too long,
too full of history,
twisting and winding
around each jungle
and mountain thrown at it.
This journey has only just begun.
And any brave traveler
would find themselves
too engrossed in the story
to pay attention to the path –
therefore; losing themselves.
Leave the journey to the winds.
Enjoy the scenery.
And keep on traveling
one step at a time.

a painter loves every stroke of her brush as you cherish every drop of ink. You discover something new with each written word and you excite to turn the page. Your art – your flow of blood must not slow as you close your eyes…do you remember your first poem? the mattress was on the floor, your closet door barred the entrance and you sat crying on the boxspring pouring out words…you wrote about love…love…that dreaded word that has eaten away at you the past 3 years and you continue to deny it entrance to your life. Why is it that you spill ink to paper? It is because of love. the love that you have for destroying, creating and finding yourself among the pages. You have not lost it…you’ve simply become distracted with responsibility, stress and depression. You were doing so well!...until you stopped writing. Do Not Stop. The heart does not stop beating simply because it needs a break – that break would become permanent. Do not cease to pulsate your imagination through your veins. This is your life – and you need life to live.

You would think that after
shedding so many tears
and filling so many
notebooks with ink
that the supply would eventually run out.
But that’s life I suppose.
The highs and lows
so artistically placed
so that the other is creeping
right around the bend
when it seems as though
the now will never end.

I would like to say that
I could use a bend right about now…
but I don’t even know what
side I’m on.