My hands are cold from want and salt-heavy air.

The sails are gray like soggy wool against the purple night.

The wind smells of possibility but tastes of regret

And I can only mutter,

"It reminds me of her. It reminds me of home."

My heart is a compass.

You are North.

Be a lighthouse and I will turn my wheel towards you.

I. Am. Not. So. Far. Away...

And what do I do/
With the fact that I only/
Wanted to love you?

Yes. And Forever.

We have not yet given ourselves a chance to miss each other.

These days. It smells like bliss.
These days the nights are so perfect they feel like pumpkin pie.
These days I am dumbstruck at the phantom in my bed.

Her voice is a paintbrush.
I will make this love my masterpiece.

I love her laugh.
Because it is the sound her smile makes.

She is a shining star. A heavenly body.
I am a mongrel dog, howling at her light.

He may have your heart.
But he'll never have our moon.
Our beautiful moon.

I understand now.
A midst my glory, I had
Forgotten my cause.

There was no storm I couldn't weather.
Until you removed a single letter.
And yet again, you removed another.
And in the place of them, you see, you set the letter h and e.
And now that storm I couldn't weather,
became a game of whether or not that storm was me.

And all at once, I loved the feel of hands sweeping across my face.

Moving in circles to mark the years I was imagining as we lay still.

The blankets like bark as our roots tangled together sipping wine like rich soil and whispers.

We. The rings. At it’s center. Moving like planets in travel.

Biting our lips shut. Revealing our age, one whispered secret at a time.

Our hearts making rungs to be climbed to our minds. Our minds making light to show the path back to our hearts. And there and back. Again and again.



I loved you the most when you loved me the most.



Had I known the answer to the riddle. I would have bound the hands together when they met. Both facing upward. As if praying to the stars to stop the time and let us live here. When it was best. When it was still before dawn. When you still believed that my shoulders were wide enough to protect us both. Wide enough to carry the world upon.



The weight. It makes my footprints look like canyons in my wake.



Could I have seen that, once again, the falling stars we wished upon were grains of sand passing through the event horizon of our infatuation to fall on us like dust, I would have shouted them back up. Screaming my throat raw.



I have no voice.



There was a time. A time when the titans wished for hearts as large as ours. A time when the moon was brighter as it caught the glow of my hand on your waist. There was a time when our hungry paws found skin and mouths like milk and finger tips like ink and hearts like parchment. And we drank and wrote and laughed so loud the horizon split. The sun coming up as an echo.



There was a time when every answer we’d ever sought could have been written on the palms of our hands and we would not have parted them to read.



A time when we believed that time could stop.



I have read the answers on my palms now.



I wish I had then.

Could I pluck this nights moon from the sky,

I'd tether it to the center of my eye.

That you might see your light reflected back,

If only once, before we die.

Please don't run away.
Because I won't chase again.
It's my turn to run.

And though the bells may ring their last,
And the dark of night is coming fast,

I'll sing the song of every kiss
and make the most of the things we'll miss.

Until this present becomes our past.

Fair warning. I am coming for everything they said I couldn't have.

Schrodinger's Haiku
Everything exists at once
While our eyes are closed.

Maybe, before this, I was wood smoke.
And maybe even then, I stung your eyes.

The sign said "Danger".
I only saw the river.
I would gladly drown.

She carries constellations on her arms. Visions of light in points on skin that tastes like milk.
Cascading upward to visions of heaven and hazel eyes, like caramel sunsets.

This one a kite.
This one a compass.
This one a whisper.
This one a secret language.
This one is a sacred thing.
This one. Right here. In the center.
This one is a single star that feels like North.

I will be fluent…

And from the start my boyish heart wondered
what your lips taste like stained red with wine and dripping with poetry like honey.

Haunting stanzas in the pauses between the notes of your voice.

These days we all need to carry a phoenix on our back.
These days we all need to be reminded that we can rise from ash.
Like high tides and crashing waves. Furious and poetic. Serene and powerful.
And at your core sits the eye of a beautiful storm. You are mighty. And mysterious.

You are serene and powerful.

And she weaves her hands around those strands of time gracefully. Casting spells like ripples, carrying outward, unaware that the pool stares back, jealous of her reflection. Her candle is lit.

“And what are you conjuring?”
“Subtle magic of the ancestors.”

The divine sits slyly in the moments between the moments. If god exists, it must be right now, with your head on my chest. Your hand in my hand.

The red and fiery windswept canyons make me think of her. And I. Earth that has accepted the kiss of fire and blushes the length of mountains. To crash against a sky so blue you could drag your knuckles across it.

And in that breath, I watched her take between the sips of wine, I felt that old and timeless ache become the days behind.
The moon is high now. The stars have danced from her arms to the satin sky, and some have even chosen to live as the shine behind my tired smiling eyes.

Tomorrow is dawn. Her smile will sing the sun up like an ovation. Cracking the horizon open with potential. And we are forever changed. Facing that horizon, eager to see what may lie beyond it.

I predict laughter. And adventure.

Perhaps I do believe in magic…

I have these old grey mitts.
I want to use them to hold your heart.
The are worn and scratchy. But they are warm.
I can’t promise that my care of it won’t leave marks. But they will all be made from a loving touch.
My hands have callouses that run deep. They are cracked like stone.
Your heart deserves a softer touch.
But I only have these old grey mitts.
You heart deserves a birds nest. A place to wait and dream of flying.
Your heart deserves a silk cocoon to rest in until it is fully transformed.
Your heart deserves a heart to sleep in. A beat to match in time.
But I only have these old grey mitts.
I’d like to hold your heart. And if you’d let me, I’d protect it like my own.
For when I saw your heart, I spun my own into yarn of blood and bone and wove it into something soft.
I’d like to hold your heart.
But I have no heart.
I only have these old grey mitts.