Keep that flawless smile

And watch the world become as beautiful as you are

Existence proves to be that much sweeter

That much brighter

And that much clearer

As I gaze into your eyes

The intrinsic beauty of life is revealed

Life is wonder


I am lost in the simplicity of paradise.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Alone in the meadow,
on a fog filled night,
the man sits in a watch tower,
looking onward into the night fog


Suddenly,
he sees a peircing light,
coming from a being in the distance,
at first it is unknown,
but as the being gets closer,
he sees


It's a person,
a woman,
walking in the distance,
walking closer to the tower,
all the man can do is stare


As she gets right under the man's tower,
he gets a good look at her face,
so beautiful,
she looks like an angel,
staring at her beauty,
he can't look away


The mysterious woman walks by however,
seems uncurious by the tower,
or by the man in it,
she just passes by


Little is know about this beautiful being,
all the man can do is watch her walk,
walk away,
the woman barely looks,
never stopping her stride,
she leaves the meadow,
leaving the man to hope,
hope she comes back to walk the meadow again

My hands look old.
I don't know what happened to their previous beings,
their soft, pale, younger selves.
My hands are cracked from the dry humorless days of anticipation.
I have hangnails, my skin so dry it's splitting from itself.
And they shake.
They shake along with my voice and my thoughts.
Trembling with excitement and worry.
When you're in the room,
especially when you're not, though.

I have stretch marks.
On my inner thighs, and on my sides,
they remind me of roads, of maps, of going places.
Each goosebump is a hillside,
each little crack in my dry skin is a riverbed, waiting for rain.
My body is a terrain of  imperfections,
and I'm just trying to keep still enough
as to not disturb the world that I harvest.

I'm standing (just so)
the way you're sitting (just so)
just so, just so
you'll see my
hunched
back, see my
poor mouth that is
twisted (just so)
with cracked lips and

for you
I won't fake composure when
I haven't any.

these nights we
hold each other's voices and
wait for the clock to stop staring
before we unravel our sweaters, our
shirts our socks and
start to hum the tunes
we were taught as
children