I love the small ranga formally named "Rosie"

You are
every breath
that I take
and you are every beat
of my heart
and I knew this
from the start
as I lay there
with your head on my chest
and your arm
around my shoulder with
you running your fingers
through my beard
and I can't help but wonder
how did I ever
win your love.

Your taste so sweet
as I cup your beautiful *******
in my hands and
I begin to taste your body
and sway to the music
of your ecstatic ******* moans
I realize that you are
all I ever needed.

All that really matters now
is that we have found
each other and we just
don't want to let go
as we both hope
that this time
that we have together
in each others arms
in these remaining years
will go oh
so slow.                          Jon  York        2013

Our love
is but a garden

where

two hearts grow.

We get it—
nobody paid attention to you
growing up.
Now the reward is attention,
lots of it—
From police, therapists, and a family
that doesn’t understand.
They want to help
but you make it hard—
The anger isn’t directed at you,
merely the troubling revelation
truth is whatever garner’s the most eyeballs.
What are we supposed to believe?
Even the cutting you implore
isn’t linked to depression.
Everyone wants to help,
but you have to want  it as much
as the attention you desire.

They are strangers now, separated by their worlds and walls.
There is no chemistry, no spark, nothing special.
They are simply strangers, sharing a couch.

One is autumn, one is spring;
one likes talking, and the other? Listening.

If walls could talk, they’d weave a tale so tragic.

In the beginning, he was sun, and she was moon.
At the ending, she was running, but he was leaving.

In the beginning, there are many things.
There is music, and laughter, and broken strings.
They have cooperation, and commitment, and promises.
Her mom gives them glasses, his mom gives them dishes.
She has her charcoals, he has his guitar.

At the ending, close to the ending-
There is his guitar, her laughter, they’ve broken things.
And that is all that is left.

Promises and glasses, dishes and hearts.
A year of trying and losing is written on the walls;
the wallpaper- peeling, the curtains- ripping.

He clears his throat, she stills- hoping.
“I’m sorry,” she hears, and it’s okay.
“I’m sorry,” she hears, “that it’s ended this way.”

I’m sorry, she hears. I’m sorry, that it’s ended this way.
I’m sorry, she hears. That it’s ended this way.

“It’s ended this way?”
“I’m ending it this way.”

The absence of you is everywhere I go,
Especially in the cold, blue night outside,
My breath leaves it's ghost on the window,
Just like you left me here.