It is on the top of the mountains from your eyes
where I find my hope, my home, my harmony
I climb them daily
and touch with my bare hands the skies
I see the sunset light
shining under your eyelashes
its warmth falls upon my skin
so softly caressing the corners of my lips
shaping them into a smile I have long forgotten,
your fingers through my hair,
your touch belongs to angels
a rain of desire falls on my existence,
I am dissolved and recreated,
our scents intertwined
running wildly where no  man has been,
your kiss writing musical notes
all over my skin,
a perfect world inside your arms,
your smooth breath makes my mind melt,
the harsh wind blowing in my bones
is now just a warm breeze making the pain go.
Your air so pure
cutting through my flesh, filling my heart,
I close my eyes to feel it's power over my body
I breath in
I feel calm,
I feel alive,
in your whispers
I am again
*lost and found

Detached from ripples swaying
in the harmonious space of self.

Tasting the quiet, with only
an inaudible sense of deferential
nothing. I tiptoe fondly
into the gardens where
grows the leaves
of other times.

Like a lullaby without words,
I'm taken here and there,
in many and all kinds of
situations. Teasing
sighs from benign
retrospective
endearments
insist on
understanding.

"Wrap me in your arms,
oh delicious memories",
This I proclaim in
honest wonder.

Every second lived
is one more step
in strong direction.
Familiar guises
prodding and guiding
the footsteps
of release.

I am concerned
only with empty
pockets and lint
left like
photographs
of times both
then and now.

So to new days
and impressive
meanderings
do I linger,
ever glad.

Most people get married
believing
in the myth that doing
so will bring about
life-long contentment.
They fail to understand
that sometimes
different flowers
are not meant to grow
in the same garden.
Things change. People change.
Love begun
can become
love undone.
The swirls and twirls
of living together
can come to define
different directions.
The marriage box
might start out
with commitment
and understanding.
A shared set of goals
that expresses itself
in shapes and patterns
of mutual anticipation.
It's sad when this changes.
When you wake up one day
and realize
you are struggling to
hold a conversation.
When there is really
nothing left to say
to one another.
Sentences are empty
of depth and
lined with wax paper
like a discarded
sandwich.
And there will
come a day,
a sobering day,
when she will say,
"I've met another.
I'm not in love with you,
anymore."

tis a fine line
between darkness and sunshine
when youre in the shadows

She sat at a bus stop,
tracing brick-loads of doubt
                      with her finger.
She waits.
She is not waiting.
She is not sure what she is doing.
Were there ever pink candles
                       on a birthday cake?
A little girl skipping
.                   with other little girls.
Another standing still memory of
.            impeccable social standing.
Too many bothersome thoughts
                      prickling in her head.
"I used to like to dance", she shares
          with a picture of her husband.
Stupid man.
He only loved her when it suited him.
"That's alright", she whispered,
          "He saw me in a whole new light
              when I drove my knife into
                                                  his *****."
She wondered how much longer she'd have
                     to wait for him to bleed to death
                                         on her kitchen floor.
Hopefully soon.
She had dishes to do.
Laundry to fold.
She could do for a
        nice cup of coffee.
She stretched out her legs.
It looked like it would rain today.