I wear your shoes
just to see what these soles
have tread upon

I put myself in your
worn leather just to see
from your perspective

Truth is- I'm not so
sure I like it...

The forward motions
going nowhere- is like stepping
in quicksand

I try and stand tall, but I'm
drowning and feeling small in
your shoes.

And I could have chosen
to have never laced up
these boots

But then again,
I would have never gained such
perspective of the neglected

So I unlace them.
place them on your shoe rack
and wear my own dusted boots
for the lack of love or light or
just coming home to us

to me at night.

I have my own shoes to fill now
and you can choose to wear mine
and see what I see

Or continue on in your shoes-
perspective distorted
to stumble on blindly.

Candace said:
all it takes is
one comment
one look in the
mirror, bending
over and feeling a
fold and i thought
maybe I am her and
she is me. And why
does it take a freaking
army for me to love
my body, in all it's
states and seasons
in the minutes that
it exists. If I am really
something like star
dust, valleys and
mountains then
why can't I
love myself
why can't
I love
my     self

I like your skin, the rough parts and the soft parts. The moles, bumps and other miscellaneous textures omitted to living on your arms like aliens. I like your back and how different it is, thin and lean with no fat, sometimes I can feel your bones under my fingers, and I’m afraid that during moments of various passions I will peel away what’s left.
I like your legs and how pale they are, how you sweat and recoil from my touch when you’ve napped and soaked my blankets.  I like the way you fumble for your glasses and fix your hair when it’s not even messy, the way your stomach heaves when you need to cough but won’t.  Just cough.
I like the way your earlobes connect and how sparse your beard is, how you threaten to shave it as if my compliments burn.  All my compliments burn you, in some shape or form.  But I give them out freely because they are true, and I want them to live in your heart forever.  In some cases you will not believe a bit of what I say, and I appreciate this as well.  However, I would like to know why, and how and when you came to these conclusions and why you settle there.    
I enjoy hearing you play guitar, when it’s not Zee Avi and you’re not gushing about how you saw her in concert.  I like that I am jealous of you, and you are never jealous of me. A trait that could pass over, but won’t. I like your capacity for apologies, sorry before, sorry after.  You are most sorry for everything that you do, and I am the one that put you there.   Should you ever become entirely mad at me some day, I shouldn’t be able to retaliate because you will have had good reason to be so.
When you speak, I like your voice. Deep and solid as if something inside you churns warmly.  A heavy bellied mammal, a trumpet of some sort. I can hear its footsteps when my head is on your chest, beneath your arm, under the blankets.  I like the gestures you used to describe things, and the high pitched sounds you make when I tickle you.  
I like the way you hide behind your arms when you’re naked, your knees, like magnets stuck together and your lips pulled thin in shame. As if I don’t like your body, you shield yourself.  But your defenses are weak and I love the parts you dare not to show. The red on your cheeks, a permanent stain, like your teeth kaleidoscoped white and the scars registered on your stomach.

I like the way you don’t let me love you, because I do.

I look out on the field so brown.

Theirs nothing but a cat around.

He sits and stawks a little mouse

Whose hiding inside his little house.

The cat is hungry, it’s plain to see..

For a fat juicy mouse would surely be

A delicious dinner for his family.

by ~ judy

What if
I'm the sun and
you're the moon

What if
'never' is our soon