please—
don’t worry;
about the feelings you cannot quite muster
or the actions you cannot quite accomplish—
for simply having you here
would suffice.

[for it is not always the ocean
or the waves themselves that bring peace,
indeed—
sometimes, simply a scent of sea air
can be enough
to put one at ease.]

and do not ask
why I wait at the window,
on this blustery winter night,
candles flickering in the den,
flames snapping in the fireplace,
pots sizzling on the stove—

instead,
inquire as to how long I will wait
until you sweep in with snow sleeping on your eyelashes,
the zephyr of the west still singing in your ears,
an exhausted smile of bruised hope dancing with your dimpled cheeks—
for yes,
oh yes,
I am still here,
waiting.

please, do not worry,
for the night is young,
the stove will keep warm,
and if I sleep, I will wake at the door—
for I will greet you with blankets wrapped around my shoulders
in which to bring you warmth,
and my toes will stretch to allow me to hold you closer,
but my words will truly bring you in from the cold:
have peace, for all is well, my love.
all is well with our souls.

[and the snowflakes will melt into tears of joy.]

You trace the
stretch marks on my hips
with your fingertips
silently challenging me with your eyes to
keep still.
I have not the concentration or the will,
and my fingers
find their way into your hair,
pulling you closer
and closer to me.

Until

the only distance between us
is the invisible ocean dividing
our souls from one another,
A distance that cannot be crossed by a simple
mingling of breaths.

And yet, we persist in these attempts,
too stubborn to admit that we are both
beginning to tire of swimming.

Dimlight breaks our time in two
&I; slip on the stillness of morning
like a new, clean dress.
Soundhues cover the chaos of my mind
in almostsilence.

Can you hear our nostalgia brightening?

Your voice, from forever ago,
echoes&dances; on the wings of sundrenched birds.
They greet the sky as an old friend:
soundhue hellos harmonize.
&I; am awake, finally.

A lifeless corpse I lay on the floor.
I shake with fear you might return.
Clothes once on my broken limbs,
lie ripped and tattered on the floor.
Blood runs down my face
a wound from being too loud.
"Shut up! Someone will here you!"
A scream cut short by a blow to the head.
Blurred vision.
In my happy place I pretend that you are my husband and you love me.
Your hot breathe down my spine.
Your hands clutching my innocence.
Holding it above my head.
You've won.
Hazy memories engraved into me forever.
You will always be a family member.
But I will always love you.
Daddy by day.
Monster by night.

I have this note.
A little note
on yellow paper,
with a young man's signature.
I keep this note.

I have this note.
A blank note.
Yes, there are words.
But they are empty.
Nothing from the heart expressed.
Over and over, I read this note.

I have this note.
The only note.
A single lasting artifact
of a romance gone by.
Yet still, the note survives.

I have this note.
A damaged note.
Ripped in two;
like me from you.
I keep the pieces of this note.

I have this note.
A months-old note.
Scribbled, signed & torn; mine.
A cold reminder of harder times.
But I cannot come to trash this note.

please
I’ll ask you with kindness one last time:
do not
absolutely, do not
(oh, brown eyes, brown eyes…)
break.

your bones are splintering,
the fibers that knit together your identity
are becoming unwoven
it seems—

& I don’t ask this easily,
nor without understanding
your lingering pain:
for the same ocean you drown in,
I’ve come to know
& the same bridges you’ve jumped from,
I’ve stood upon, aloft—

& with the wind&waves; I bend,
yes, I, too, bend--
with our evenings awash in escapism
& our midnights amiss with noise
[& our daylight alive with passioned kisses
never meant to ever say good night]--

yes we bend, dear friend,
but we absolutely cannot break.

dear love of mine,
we are two branches that ache on the same rotten, fallen tree,
two butterflies with gold-plated wings that labor to sing,
two corpses encased before their time,
two veins that race with the same
bloodlust for living

[but also for dying,
for that is our flaw,
& we do it exceedingly well].

for what I give to you is peace,
& what you give to me is inspiration—
two things that fight to exist
in a world that throws them out with
itswars&itslost;&itspoets.;

so in fact it is not love
we share in our greetings,
but rather the
enabling of
narcissism,
masochism,
& the misery to which
we harbor&cling;.