I want to be spring rain,

Dancing gently on you.

I want to be winter snow,

Melting at your touch.

And last,
there was Maria.

Her birth fell outside
the natural timeline of
all the rest of her family's affairs.

She may have called herself
'an accident.'

I could never make that connection.

She was the closest thing
to passion
I have ever known;
aside from childhood nights
beside an indifferent and well-fed fire.

She was terribly shy;

until she

tremulously

handed me (only one) of her keys.

[Alas
I wonder if it was ever
for the lock upon
her august heart.]

But she sang and she danced
and she ever approached me boldly.
She drew me out of myself
and brought me to wonder.

She even whispered with passion,

daring to share with me
her stately dreams.

And it goes without saying
(though I'll write it and lament)
she kissed with such passion.

She was above and beyond
any other girl I ever loved (...few)

Indeed,
I loved her.

I loved her,

almost enough.

These words are for me,
For I'm the one who's hurting,
I'm just healing myself.

When was the last time you told someone you loved them without them disappearing into the floor? Tell me why you have rugs covering all the places you stood waiting for them to come back

Do you still remember the first time you tried to block the voices in your head? You wrote down every word they were saying until you realized that none of them translated to "I love you, too"

Why did you stop skipping stones? Is it because the ripples reminded you of the calls you received from your lover - eventually becoming so separated that you couldn't tell the difference between the ringing in your ears and reality

Tell me why the faucets in your house only run on Thursdays. How you shower with umbrellas to avoid the thunderstorms and how the rain still always seems to find you

Do you remember the Grand Canyon? How your tour guide explained that water pressure of a river can cut deep into a river bed, you started crying.

Where is the life boat you made? How do you keep something from falling apart with only cigarettes and tissue paper?

Why are all of your shoes filled with rocks? When was the last time you didn't think about jumping into the lake when you had them on?

Tell me how they were your life jacket - how they promised you air at the bottom of the ocean. How you haven't seen them since they jumped - how you hope that somehow they're still breathing even though you aren't.

How you haven't since the day they last did.

Needing to go home, the time has come
All of these designs have come undone
The party favors have been put away

The room is cold, your body still with sleep
There are a thousand open windows looking in from the street

The night was filled with shooting stars

A one night stand is what our lives are

We loved each morning well
We played through out the night
When it was dawn we longed for the night

We held up infinity's mirror
We danced like angels riding the Santa Ana winds
We dreamed of sandcastles and moved right in

We constructed deconstructed
there were even moments of resurrection

But the time has come to head on home

Kissing your forehead fairtheewell

Leaving my belongings on the floor

I came with nothing but potential
I leave with nothing as promised

Opening the door
A turn to the dark and silent night
But first blessing those who remain unblessed
by such a life's gifts

The time has come
I need to go home
Time for peaceful rest.

Opia. Noun. The ambiguous intensity of looking into someone's eyes, which can fell simultaneously invasive and vulnerable.

As you lie in my arms, watching the television, you don't notice that my undivided attention is focused on you. Something I've been dreaming of for weeks, and it's finally come true. Even better, from your angle, you can't see me staring into your eyes, so I don't feel the nervous compulsion to turn away. Whether directly or not, I could drink in your eyes with mine, for hours, and they would be among the best hours of my life.
Then there's the other hand, held tightly by trepidation. I love the prospect of your eyes staring into mine, but it's not without its fears. I'm afraid you'll see all the pain and fears that I've spent the past seven years working to overcome. I'm afraid you'll see all the insecurity and doubts I have about myself. I'm afraid you'll see all the words that I long to whisper in your ear, but can't, because I'm terrified of scaring you away. I'm afraid you won't like the fact that, behind these eyes lies only pictures and thoughts of you. But most of all, I'm afraid that, unlike me, who loves every detail, and lives for moments like these, you won't love the things you see. I long for the day when you stare happily into my eyes, but I'm frightened that you won't enjoy the secrets they reveal.