don't worry
I can fake it
I can fake my happiness
for your enjoyment

I’m a dead poet,
Buried six foot deep,
With vivid memories
That form a heap.

I’m a dead poet,
With words etched
In my heart, and
Fire formed art.

I’m a dead poet,
Covered in snow,
Rose petals and a
Withered glow.

I often find that when I am naked,
I lose boundaries.
I don't know where my skin ends
and the world begins.

When I lie in bed, I become part of its cotton comforter and sheets.

When I walk around my house, I become part of the nest:
I am the hearth, the warmth, and settling dust.

When I was with you, I
became part of you.
I was your skin,
you were mine.
I was your Sunday night stubble,
your whispers and breathy chuckles. I was
your short fuse and forced
indifference,
your silence.

When we tried to pull our
boundaries back,
we fought.
We tore uneven
       borders.

I took some of you, you took
some of me.

Love doesn't aim to control or curb or force...rather it encourages, supports and persuades..if it does the former...then it isn't and cannot be love.

I write for love, for life
with the words I see fit
but if it's you I think about
I can't find the right words
for I am speechless, beguiled
by your beauty and essence

Perhaps there is none
no words, no rhymes
Or maybe there's too many
too many words, too many rhymes
so I sit here, beguiled yet again
silently, secretly admiring a masterpiece

Because No Matter What...
...I'd Still Choose You

I need to know
if you think of me;

winter is coming
and it often arrives
with unexplainable sorrow.