Being with you is like
being in
the sea.

Void of worry,
I am filled
with the infinite

wonder of your ocean
eyes that whisper
a depth of meaning
like the morning sunrise on the top
of the highest mountain -

a promise
of
forever.

And when you smile
I am reminded of the hint
of lavender in the crisp
morning breeze that fills
the echoes of my past:

a summer

that never ended

in the heart of a broken
man,
waiting for her
love to wash
away his sorrow in
the cold river that
lies in the heart
of an evergreen
forest.

A line
in
the
sand,

a touch on the arm..

the mark of pure bliss,
marred only by the fading
of the seasons and the falling
of the stars.

But you will never fade,
for I am forever lost
in your
sea,

and you are the moon
that carries me

home.

I crawled through the dead spaces of old houses
Just to breathe in years old memories
Brimming with adolescent thrill and reveries
Picturesque sceneries in glass-encased eternities

Withered limbs broke apart feinting apathy
Parched and cracked, my lips bore silent screams
As I disintegrated, filling the negative space
That resides where loss and ache form dead weight

I am the calm that breaks your heart
I am the still that never departs
In a frenzied world of dead spire loves
Out of reach, out of luck, and out of touch

I became envy, firing sparks across cold skin
I became adoration, pulsing and sun-kissed
I yearned to hate
I yearned to love

Do I dare coalesce?
What will I become?
Knowing all that’s gone?
Knowing not what’s to come?

Do I dare coalesce?
What will I become?
Knowing all that’s gone
Is all I loved?

They lit
A thousand acre fire
To smoke out old dreams
That had
Buried themselves deeper
In the choke between ash seams

Writhing, fresh white skin
Came apart, bursting the arteries
Between the surface creature
And the blacker haunt named apathy

“Sleep away your desire
“Sleep away your misery
“Sleep away your vigour
“Sleep away your sympathy”

A dead seed in the pyre
A dead stare set to atrophy
A dead wish undelivered
In a lull of breathless harmony

A stiff wind broke the morning clouds. It was another gloomy sunrise, in a string of second-rate days. Kiera woke much like the sun, downtrodden and wishing to fall back down. She snapped down on the alarm, knocking it to the floor, and with two blinks was out again—back into a world she was beginning to recognise.

First the flooding darkness. Despite two weeks of this her body still rejected it. Her body hated it. Pathetic. Limbless shakes as the throbbing chill tore its way through her lungs, gripped her skin like sweat. She could smell the sharp stink of iron. When her vision came she saw her arms were covered in blood. A red too bright.

A figure she hadn’t noticed flickered out of her view. She turned her head sharply but saw no one.

Kiera realised she was walking. She held a square, brown-wrapped package, which would not stop squirming. As she struggled to keep hold of the ******* thing, ****** prints coated its sides. A postbox lay on the other side of the road—the same colour as the blood on her arms.

Kiera was furious. The ******* package would not stop squirming. She needed to reach the postbox before she dropped it. She was desperate—scared shitless. Why?

Kiera began to cross the road. Each step sent the package twitching, twisting. Her legs were bone thin. Her skin was shredding apart. Another flicker—edge of the vision phantom—appeared, but she barely noticed. The package was growing so heavy that her toes were breaking on the asphalt. She looked up and saw the postbox had receded.  How dare you? How ******* dare you, you *******.

She was on the wrong side. She had never left the sidewalk. How could she? She had no legs. Blood began to pour out of the postbox. It crossed the road, coating her torso, lapping the bottom of the package. The package stilled and began to deform in her hands. It was rotting.

Kiera had an urge to *****.

Restless, you lie
Draped in autumn gold
You brush the dirt from your wings
And the leaves from your soul

You trail the night
Fire-flight through your skin
Brightest at the horizon
Distant and brief

Cold fire, wild love
Your passion spills over
Spills out
Cold desire, wild love
Your passion is dire
Count me out

I've come to know the
hospital well
the stale smells
the nurses names and stories
the hand sanitizer
the countless quiet
nervous
elevator rides
stuff like that
I could even write a full review
of the cafeteria food
should this hospital
have it's own newspaper.
There's been too many sad days
but I find myself laughing
as she shows off her blonde
extravagant wig
The doctors and nurses
Fall in love with her
her energy
her aura
As most people do
They laugh with her
And cry with her
And hope with her
People come in
They say
things will be fine
things will get better
My mom grows weary
She's heard this since stage two
They say
keep up the fight
But seen as a fight
Her getting sicker only implies
she is not fighting hard enough
that she is losing
nothing can **** hope quicker
but she shrugs it off
She doesn't need some
greeting card or nylon balloons
or some
half-assed healer
or some gurus blowing
smoke from burning sage
She needs authenticity
connection
meaning
She needs to be told things are awful
And probably won't get better
She needs complete vulnerability
on both ends
She needs real
Which is hard to find
in a lot of places
and faces
and words
an hour with her though
she would get it out of you
the 'you' that you didn't even know
she touched lives beyond
whatever I ever imagined capable
There are many ways
I wish to be like her
but most
is to be able to smile
as real
and transparent
as she did
when I am about to die.

I want you hold me more like bible and less like a grudge, but you just want to mumble proverbs to my neck while I touch you like a psalm, both of our breaths lost in senseless revelations. I have been keeping to much track of how many times you try to break me into lines so that maybe I will look more like poetry and less like a eulogy; you're only here because you have time on your hands, but darling, I have blood on mine and I'm sorry that I have had more than a few thoughts of what you might look like covered in red. Dying never should be ******, but you told me I look killer in this dress, and I know you only said it because you see it's strapless and you're so used to seeing me wear my heart on my sleeve. It won't matter once I'm dead, or even once we touch, but all I know is that this bed feels cold as hell and you're right here beside me and that's a paradoxical statement but so are you and none of that is even close to fair.