today's for sitting still
the small girl in the window sill
watching as my silent rivalled whispers die
in february's lilac skies
today i am working, rubbing remnants
off of dishes and walking back inside
from the bus stop in 30 degree weather,
half the temperature from where you now reside
today i plan on kissing my teddy bear goodnight
kissing for love where your lips aren't
today i am getting in someone's car and then we’ll drive
to dover beach and maybe he will smile with those eyes
the two that beam like someone i've been
missing my whole life
tonight is for the prospect that could make me someone's wife
but today is for our nothings
in a february sky

Sometimes it's "it is what it is" strewn in whispers
Across violet rayed skies
Just whispers of what could've been mine
Repeated like a misted breath in February’s sighs
Sinking, my strife
Sinking, my tenuous
life in a coal mine

Your longing has made me so fragile that even a whiff of your breath could shatter me.

Does she look at all like her younger self?
Still having the colour in her cheeks
Still having a disposition to be called sweet
Now having written herself into **** and ludicrous
ways of being
Do you see her now?
Underneath the bridges of
youth unmarred whispering
"I only wanted to be one of the greats"

It's so hot
So torrid in broken-heartland
I'd become accustomed to warm wintry
stolidity
"Our everything" murmured blistering
undertones from so far away
What sad moths we were–why
did we ever succumb to the flame?
I’d never listen to music with wandering
chords–since then I never listen
to love-drawn swords;
All I see is four hands molding
sculptures from aching cells
and then hating themselves
like Michelangelo's Raphael
I see your eyes, drawn away like
flimsy curtains and feel it all again
the falling together and falling
apart
That inestimable work of art
museum hall guards forgot
to monitor; we felt it all then and now–
nothing
except during these stifling midnight minutes
When upon a frenzied impulse I want to do something, when
I want to do something wrong—
I want to put on
our long-
forgotten
moth-drawn love songs

I was always afraid to call myself a poet
Whirling around in little dark rooms
scribbling
Meaningless ink blots
Like a confused typhoon
Scared not to be led by my sisters’ driftings
Towards poetry and song-writing and all the
wonders of
Human creation, and all the while
Scared to be led
We’re always writing and running
And running and writing
And we don’t have time to think and
It’s too much;
The storm was always a shameful habit that
we had to hide
But what if, for just a second in the eye I let
myself
Succumb to the tide
And whirl around in little dark rooms like a
raging wind
To make a mess, to write and cry and to
finally
Call myself a poet

there's a feeling which flows ascendant in me
something like rapture or love
at the movement in your chest, and when i
recall your heartbeat by my head
your song whirls and dithers around me
like a mourning dove or a
euphonious revenant, composer of all my
lyrics unsaid
something stirs like a spectral presence
when all of your music counts me condemned