We are stuck in life’s
autumn. Fading, waiting for
our winter to come.

Do you remember when I told you I never dream?
Now I can’t stop these ******* dreams of you.
Dreams that start mundane enough:
a trip to the store; a walk about campus;
and suddenly, you.
Where you shouldn’t be.
(I thought we drew an imaginary line down I-29)
Sometimes you call out to me,
and others, you pretend I’m some stranger,
instantly interesting in my mystery,
easily forgotten in my absence.
Invariably, I approach.
Invariably, you’re not alone.

Who is this brown eyes, stupid smirk, gold watch?
This pressed collar, boat shoes, jawline?
I ignore him and focus on you.
“Why do you haunt my dreams?
Does my waking mind not chase you enough?
All I want is rest.”
Sometimes you laugh at my childishness,
and others, you and jawline stare at me blankly.
Invariably, I ask for a private word.
Invariably, you oblige.

“Why are you here? Why are you always here?”
“This is all in your head”
“Even more reason I deserve an answer;
an honest one–though you were never too good at those.”
A pause.
“I’ve never lied to you,”
“Sometimes I’d omit parts of the truth,
and others, I’d spare you minor detail.
Invariably, you’d rest easier.
Invariably, you’d dream of me.
You always did.”

I wonder if you think about me.
The way you hand fed my heart
while I mended yours
piece by piece.
The way I held you
against my body when there was
nothing in your head but
death and doubt.
The way I’d smirk when
your jokes fell flat because you’d always
laugh through the punchline.

I wonder what makes you laugh now.
Is it still me?

The way I swallowed my tongue
while you shoved lies down my throat?
The way I held on to you
while you found pleasure in another?
The way the corners of my lips would
tighten as you set me up to be your next
perfectly orchestrated joke?

Because I think of you.
And am torn.
Piece by piece.

You don’t have to be so quiet
out here, under God’s ever changing canvas
where only his less ******, less upright creations
can hear your desperate pleas for my flesh
to discover more depth.
I, the mighty pump-jack, drawing in the
natural resources of your womanhood–
You, the delicate Mother Earth begging
for asphyxiation.
“Scream for it,” I demand in a voice that both
startles and excites you.
“scream for it as the babe does the ****,
as the waves do for big moons, as the soul does
for purpose”
You obey, so I oblige; your warmth, with its grip
implores I do the same.
Eons pass in this embrace

In a moment of distraction I tear my eyes from you
and survey our surroundings:
to my left (your right, if you care for reference)
the trees, dancing to the wind’s choreography,
the cardinal, teaching its young their most valuable talent,
the squirrels depositing their winter’s insurance
in places they’re sure to forget.
To your other right, the lake:
fish making grand leaps above the surface
hoping to catch unsuspecting mosquitos,
***** gulls observing from high, diving below,
glad to see their meal present itself.
Beneath me: you.

Your hair, wild with sweat and agitation;
my fingers, discovering secrets in you
to which neither of us were previously privy;
those two supple mounds positioned
perfectly below your vertebrae–

I whisper “you are perfect”
you: “you don’t have to be so quiet”

I’m not sure which I prefer:
falling asleep next to
you,
or waking to the smell of coconut and vanilla,
your ear still pressed to my breast,
stray hairs and a fingertip tickling my
solar plexus as you stir,
convincing me, as you always must,
that last night’s visions were dreams
and not nightmares.

It’s always the same:
like careless parents, we lie atop those two twins
pushed together in the corner of your highrise
searching for things in each others faces
we may have missed. Or perhaps
comforting ourselves in finding what we knew we would.
You tell me my eyes are beautiful–
“that’s because they are mirrors, love”
I tell you your lips have control over my entire being–
“that’s because they have tasted you;
and things that have tasted power do not easily give it up”
We laugh at how old we sound, and I
pull you closer to kiss you above your brow.
You ask for another there, but instead I plant one
where your influence lies

And I wake…
to the smell of coconut and vanilla;
soft pressure on my chest–
a dream.

The morning the aroma of that tropical fruit refuses to greet me
it will have been a nightmare

“Go not cautiously into love”

That’s what the songs say.
But those broken poets,
******* rhythm and rhyme for their written word
know nothing of the mechanisms of the heart.
In the same way that a man who breaks
a thousand watches only to immediately replace them
knows nothing of gears of springs

She was a vision
fresh air blown south with
a cautious smile and a broken heart
long fingers–soft to the touch
longing to touch something she could believe
was real.

She was a mist
drifting through interactions
the way a mime may be made jealous–
silent motion on light feet. Was she
here? or just her contortions?
but those eyes!
emeralds poorly hidden behind tears
not yet fully dried,
anticipating tears
not yet fully cried
(for tears start first in the heart before finding their wings)

She was mine–
for a time.
those lips forming positive parabolas
without reserve or hesitation.
it was a drug incapable of inhalation
or ingestion, but I
felt it in  my chest and center.
I, addicted to see her work her ****** mathematics,
would do all to coax it out of hiding.

However.
behind it hid another.
the reason those fingers that had interlocked mine so perfectly
searched blind for something real.
the reason she blew like the southerlies–
refreshing for a time, and then ghost;
the reason those jewels glistened as if
held beneath water
like hidden treasure.

She was never mine. But
nevermind