You are the captain of this vessel;
where you steer it, it will go.
You see, I have already fallen in love with you..
from the moment it launched from the slip.
And as all of everyone clearly knows,
the one who loves the least
controls the Relationship.

You control the sails and the winds,
you are the compass needle.
So sail me out to the open sea
with its salty ocean air.
And if you don’t care
to stay with me,
then simply leave me there.

I’ll find my way by beacon star
and drift towards the moon;
I’ll brace my soul for choppy seas
and weather every storm;
I’ll mourn you when you leave too soon,
and leave me so forlorn.

I asked my mind
why it is
you I’ve come to love
A hundred reasons given me
and still was not enough

So I asked
why it is
I fell in love with you
Knowing there’s a difference
between these questions two

My mind took pause, I shook my head,
there was no answer, none
Then revealed my heart, *“beloved
‘Why it is,’ tis enough, that
I need not count past One.”

We sit in the same room, the same car, the same bed
mere inches apart, yet the distance feels insurmountable..
We sit in silence, each lost in our own thoughts,
but it is so loud in my mind.
My thoughts are screaming out to you.. wishing you could hear them.
I slowly let my eyes drift in your direction.. you are miles away,
no where near where my thoughts can reach you.
I wonder where you are,
and where you wish to be.

Foolishly, I try to make you love me.
Foolishly, waiting for you to love me,
thinking time will bring you to me;
thinking if I just try this.. or that..
But sometimes we try too hard.

We sit staring into each others eyes,
but we are looking through each other.
You – looking to where you wish to be;
I –  trying to see where you are,
trying to figure out when it was that the light in your eyes dimmed,
when the flame died.
Seems it died too soon.

I miss the times you would gaze into me,
and see me.
When I saw the passion in your eyes,
when I felt your words tear into my soul,
when you spoke to me
in whispers
so only I could hear.

Dim lamp light casts
a poetic dance of shadows
from the corner of my
quiet office space
tracing words neatly
in my scribe's notebook
I rassle the pen skillful
to print.

I notice my paced breathing
holding back ever so carefully
the cowering anticipation
of the haunting lull
a writer dreads in times
of fevered inspiration.

My handwriting is strong
and simple, neat and tempered
but I soon expect the sneak
of the serpent scrawl to
wrap around my wrist
and pull me in tighter to
the tempo of a poet in heat.

I brace myself and breathe
deeply, purposefully I release
a humming hush of air
from my loose lungs.

I tend to tap my right foot
to the beat of a silent drum
rarely in rhythm with my
right writing hand.

Here comes the scrawl
I feel I can't control
Is it lack of strength
or the sheer thunder
rolling thoughts on paper??
I think it is a little bit of both

Where are you dear
fellow poets in your
casting hour??
Conjuring up words
to share our wants,
needs, fears and doubts
so perfectly
...or not....

The point is in the
actual act itself
isn't it??