How is she?

how are we?*

What about me? Dead.

She crawls towards me on sheets
Straight from cloath line
|Carrying a hint of the outside
In.|
Her eyes- two little storms of
Pure woman, self-respect and a firm knowing
That she is as beatiful as
Anything else mortal.
Warm with summer, slightly chilled from the breeze through
Dancing curtains-
Drowzy from sleep and wanting to wake with a
Thank You all over her being,

It's not what it looks like.
|It's not love, it's a very intense embrace|
That reaches through us both

And on into the Infinite Forevers.
Names whispered and toes curled in Utmost Ritual,

As an origo of heaven and ground.
This is how we say Grace.

This is how we thank.

All I could ever become
Is perfectly contained
Between Every Day Hero
And someone who is at times
Afraid of darkness.
And light.

I bought a midnight ticket
On a one way train
Standing on the platform
In the pouring rain
These days it seems our attitudes
Are pretty much the same

I turn around for a moment
Of a wave goodbye
To catch a tear of sorrow
Glistening in your eye
Or is that just a reflection
From the station lights

Can't help but wish it'd worked out
Between the two of us
You do what you feel is right
I'll do what I must
Two lovers once in love
But never quite enough

The train roars into the station
Half a minute late
With nothing more to wait for
I don't hesitate
I step into the darkened car
With nothing more to say

At ten minutes past long gone
On that one way train
I gaze out of the window
Into the pouring rain
And watch your silent silhouette
As you walk away

I didn't want to remember
but never tried to forget
and I almost didn't leave
yet I wouldn't go back
I wish I hadn't chosen
but wouldn't change a thing
I'm constantly humming a tune
yet without a song to sing
Feeling so claustrophobic
but afraid to venture outside
I'm sitting here hopefully
yet dwelling on goodbyes
I refuse to release more tears
but my eyes are brimming still
as I linger in warm thoughts
always confused about how I feel

i don't ever want you
to let me go

but

i don't know
if you really have me
at all

listen to your mother when she is old;
'the truth is sorrow poisons you. desire
hearts
and lips. rooms are filled with
beautiful treasures.
men falter - how small is your strength?

hold the heart,
eat honey,
know your soul.

do not let your heart turn away.'

Does that book still burn on your shelf?
Or have you stuffed it under your bed,
its pages torn, still smelling of cigarette smoke
with a few coffee stains.
(Mine rests next to Tolkien).

Do you flip through it once in a while?
Noting the words you marked,
once full of meaning.
Are they empty now?
(I found empty words in my copy).

Do you take care to avoid
the covert letter under the jacket flap?
Or maybe read it, and wonder
(I regret writing it.)