The more I search for you,
The less of you I see.
The more I wait,
The longer time becomes.

I’ve lost half my body weight
Straight out through my eyes,
Pushing my fingers into my forehead
In attempts to hold it together.

It’s been a while since my lips were smooth.

My logic tells me to do things.
Go places.
See people.

My emotions say **** that.

My body says move.
Enjoy.
Dance.

My emotions say **** that, too.

Looking at myself from outside,
I’m a wreck.

And all my mind can say is:
No one like a wreck.

No one likes, disheveled hair, broken nails, chipped polish, tear swollen face, lazy thighs, slumping slouch posture, unkempt clothing. Sad eyes.

No one likes what sadness looks like.

And I finally understand “purple mountain majesties,”
as I sit here on my perch.

And behind me: that woman with the white hair,
like sails of the boats in the bay, or wings of the swans in my mind,
red pocketbook;
red lips dripping with hope.

I think someone forgot her.

Or maybe she is content.
Maybe she sees the world’s majesties, too….

But her swiveling head tells me otherwise.

I ask if she has a pen to lend me.
Her eyes become glass
as her third eye scrunches into an asterisk:

“No, dear, I’m so sorry. I don’t….”

My teeth and tongue lick the air with sympathy:
“No worries, ma’am. Thank you.”

I slide back to my rock and ask the slivered moon for her company.
I feel regret that everybody leaves with the sun,
as if the show is over.
But with skies still blue,
and moon always dancing,
it has only just begun.

I sniff the cold in.
Vicinity barren;
If I were to fall, nobody would know.
I would slip beyond this world
and find an orchestra of
silence in the sea.

I sit here wondering where the birds go.

Turning my head right
vertigo lops me upside the head.
The waves have rocked my mind to the point where I feel
I might
actually
fall.

Somehow,
that would be alright.
Somehow,
I would be okay.

Because maybe then
I won’t have to see
the vivid pained look in people’s eyes.
Like that beautiful abandoned woman
with the wing-white hair
and her hopeful red pocketbook.

Snake eyed smile
foggy brain
tired pores
dripping
          dripping
                 dripping -
                                insane.

Feeling minute
minuscule
minimized -  tired.

This flower needs some water
this flower needs some sun
this flower need some soil,
this flower need everyone

And I am droning and droning and droning on
of withering plants,
scattering ants ...
pointless lines monotonous tones
scraping bones
bruising flesh
itching palms:
                      catching the rush.

Twitching twitching lights
dead trees with leaves in flourish
as I scamper home with my body to nourish.

My soul yearns to give you the world,
But all she can give is this brown-eyed girl.
Her beauty was dim,
She was barely slim.
Her home got cold,
Her sayings- old.
Her future was full,
Of colors dull.
Her life was gray,
Until one day.
The light leapt,
Promises kept.
Blues blooms,
Reds swoon,
Grays in the gutter,
She opened the shutters,
Let the earth spill in:
Her world begins.
My soul presents you with this brown-eyed girl,
And hopes that she will become your world.

Enrages silence combs through bleak feeble hair strands.
Frore weather fidgets through thick coat threads,
Licking flesh;
Penetrating bones with piercing, ridged fangs.

Mere rustles scream.

Breath escaping from lips so close
In rhythm and tone, they seem to be harmonic.
Limbs erode from manipulative
Promises of divinity.

Forceful whirlwinds of mania
Sweeps across raw, exposed fervor.
Eternally caught in tremors of avidity.

We lavish in our intertwined fantasia.