You came to me with little baggage,
you placed your hand in mine
and your lips on my forehead;
soft, not heavy. Fragile.

The only baggage was that of your past,
and your eyes screamed with experience.
I could never find the ghosts that haunted you.
I spent months trying to read your story;
found that you were a novel of suspense and mystery.
You spoke very little but your breath smelled of alcohol,
and that's when I knew there was something unknown.
I tried to find what burdened you, tried to sink beneath your skin,
but like floorboards you creaked and were full of tight nails;
I tried, but too much force could break you apart,
I never wanted to hurt you.

I could never crack the case of you,
your windows were too fogged to see through,
and then I thought that maybe you'd left them like that purposely;
who am I to knock down your walls?
Who am I to peak into your corners?

I never did find what burdened you,
and I feared of becoming a part of whatever that was;
in some ways I hope you left with less baggage than you came with,
but sometimes I hope the scrape on the window reminds you
that someone once tried.

If you don't want me around,
please, lock your door.

(NJ2014) ©All Rights Reserved.

Have you ever wanted something so much,
you had no choice but to let it go?
The bird clings to the sky
and the sky provides the wind,
the flowers grow from the ground,
and the earth provides the soil;
I'm falling for you,
but your arms aren't outstretched.

I should straighten up before I scratch my knees
and bruise my heart.

(NJ2014) ©‎All Rights Reserved

Your arms are columns, structure,
with hands like carpeting that runs along the surface,
your breath lingers like smoke of the fireplace
after it was put out at the end of a holiday.
Your voice is rain hitting the window,
falling softly and condensing into nothing but fog,
fingers tracing quiet promises and desires in the form of pictures
that will only fade away with the hands of time.
Your eyes are an autumn scenery wall art,
your lips a single rose in a glass vase.

It's moving in day and the house is empty,
with nothing but a piano and your structure;
singing and spinning around in classical tune,
it feels like home, you feel like home.

My voice echos off the walls,
solo piano swimming through the halls,
my dancing feet patter on the hardwood floor;
beautiful, but when the hands of time strike night

I find,
this house is not yet a home.

(NJ2014) ©‎All Rights Reserved

I tell you that there are huge storms inside of me
and you always take out your umbrella like you're waiting for it to pass by.
The hurricanes are ripping through the feelings I have for you,
and the wind is making me deaf to your "sweet" words;
but still, under your ignorant shelter you sit.

I worry that you've come here only for vacation,
that the sunshine on the brochure that is me in public
has convinced you that you've found a great, temporary, place to lay.
But really, my waves will leave you drowning
and my mind will have you lost in a stranded place.
My hands will cause destruction,
and the earthquake I call my heart will shake your stable ground.

I worry that you lay on the beach of my calamity
but ignore my roaring waves.
I worry that you will soak up all of my sun,
and leave me shivering my my rain.

(NJ2014) ©All Rights Reserved