There’s something about the way your words just flow when you speak of what you love that gives me a sense of peace. This is the same kind of peace felt when the Florida wind caresses against my skin on a warm afternoon, and sometimes I like to think your touch is just as gentle and welcoming. Sometimes, convincing myself that your touch is as smooth as the words you use to lure me to you drives away the monster inside seeking what to taunt me with next. Lately, it’s been picking at you, but when you smooth out the bumpy road and just drive, my mind is at peace. The peace growing in this careless mind which I used to call home has a name: Travis; my new home.

There’s something about your eyes; profound, delicate, confidential; they describe you. Just by the gaze of your brown/green eyes, your personality is revealed. And it’s that confidentiality in your stare, and the delicacy in your gaze that gives me security.

I can’t wait for the day that it’s no longer the way you observe people, but the way you hold me that gives me that sense of security. Where it’s no longer the way you talk, but that “Florida wind” impression you give off when your breath strokes against my skin that gives me that same sense of peace. When I’m home and I can rest and hear the music of your heartbeat putting me to sleep. I can’t wait for that day, when I can just put those demons to the side and breathe to the rhythm of the music. Because with your peace and security orbiting my mind, I can finally rest again.

The brave may not live forever
But the cautious?
They do not live at all.
                                                       (K R W)

I know you will never see this
but I am sorry.

I am sorry for leaving you
at a rough time

I am sorry for causing you pain
for leaving you with regret that you shouldn't even feel.

You shouldn't feel anything
for this is my fault.

I am sorry.

Her ribs crackled, in the skeleton night.
And I remember my mouth on hers,
where atomic fish hooks attached our lips.
Where there was nothing like kissing
like our God wasn't dead.

She was accused of killing a taxi driver
in the Brazilian underbelly.
Smoking a cigarette, she dropped it on the ground,
spat on it, and crushed it with her bare foot,
saying she fell in love with the way
his sleep-drenched body lay.

And I told her to stay home.
And I told her that they'd find her.
But she didn't stay home.
And they did find her.

Chasing her through the Babylon brush,
insults were thrown and so were balloons of gasoline.
Each pink, yellow, and green vessel floated in the air, as an internal opera heightened.
And sour splashes spread across her body,
as she fled from the vigilante mob.

The children danced along the panoramic horizon she ran beside,
laughing, pointing, singing.
The slumbering sorrow of the situation became evident,
and she started to feel the calm of fleeting life.

Her dreams aborted and her ideals became fallacies,
and with the sound of fuzzy motors in the background, her heart leapt and her feet slipped.

Rope ate into her, wrapping her like the orphaned recklessness of each set of eyes that painted her.
She squirmed amongst the cheers.
She cried with every thrown beer and balloon.
The empty-eyed males gang ***** her.
The women covered the children's eyes,
and the children tried to move their mothers' hands.

And I pushed my way through the crowd.
And I saw her smothered in blood, beer, and gasoline.
I wanted to halt the hurricane that destroyed morality.
But I am a coward.
Frozen by my fear, I, too, am a murderer.
And a murderer I'll always be,
for the burning of all that was good.

Sudden flames soared towards the sky.
Laughter escaped as molotov cocktails exploded onto her body.
Her head turned towards the crowd,
as flames scampered across her face.
I saw in her, what I never saw before,
which was the human race.