I told you that I wanted to float

and so you took me to the pool,
tipped my body slowly,
your hold on the curve of my back
the precarious fulcrum.

With shallow breath and the sun in my eyes
I think I fell in love with you a thousand times over.

Wild, wild grass and wild, wicked smile, heavy
wooden barn burning off the hip for us to see, same barn
we made love in, views of red and blue firetruck lights
forever burnt, engraved inside my head, days so hot things
catch sparks in the nights when we come to life again
remember how we couldn't afford clothes (well, still can't)
so we all partied in the ****, skinny dip in the lake and a flame
snuck off with Johnny somewhere, but glad no animals lived
inside that barn for years now and the country is where I belong---

telephone poles to nowhere, blue skies, rolling yellow grassy hills
and water towers occasionally, your wild and wicked smile
next to me in the van with our friends doing our time on the road
but a burning barn can't crush our spirits more than they already are
can't ruin the memories of a number of electrified nights
of alcohol and poor decisions, broken people collecting
each other's pieces.

disappointment. sigh
broken dreams. near but so far

bruised battered
i look to my knife and say
maybe today is the day
to send it all away
anguish and languish the mark
of a palpitating heart

maybe,far away
perhaps real nearby hope may
a part of this life
will this hope be a key to
the lock of life's farrago ?
maybe, the key is to go

I am crumbled like a paper with inadequate poetry and disowned words.
I am the bad poetry that you hear from an amateur. The one that lacks litery expertise. The one that doesn’t know enough metaphors. The one that fails to rhyme. The one with broken lines. The one that swallows millions stories into a line. The one that need more expertise to be understood than to express. The one that overspills yet fits into mouth just fine. The one you wouldn’t understand. Ever. The one I couldn’t explain to you. Never. The one you would probably hear and dislike at once.

The one that you would hate.

I am that peotry.  

That is short of a melody.

Day by day we cut our talks
word by word,
every day a word short
late night long chats
to one word nod
a sea of explanations
to a drop of glance

nothing more changes
except for the undecided timings
of hanging on the phone,
the unsaid goodnight
at the end of the chat
in the pool of thousands before,

Maybe we have learned to decipher the unsent messages
Maybe we have learned to read between the spaces
Because there’s so much for us to say
but we already know it all