Keep me silenced
a well of anxiety
to dip guilt into,
as a pen that runs out of ink
before the thought is finished,

a morning spent in solitude,
surrounded by so much hustle,
an exclamation,
a gasp,

and it always bothered me
that he was called Winnie the Pooh,
because what the ****'s a pooh?
'An exclamation of discontent,'
and that is all I seem capable
of being lately.

The colored pigments and figments
of my loose-leaf imagination.

All the tortured souls,
identical in their melancholy,
each one wailing
in a uniform cry to be unique.

I must leave my mark on the world,
but the ground is a beach
and people are waves.
We're all on our deserted islands
with our footsteps washed away.

So very few escape.
I want to be one of those stars,
or even just a smile,
but I am lost beneath the waves.
Trying to keep silent,
and I guess it's for the best,
because my pen's run out of ink,
and anyway,

I'm just another sound.

Inspiration comes to me
at such strange times
I'm listening to saxophones
but all I hear is you
and I try to write it down.

You are a percussionist
and that is necessary
because what is a heart,
what is life,
what is love,
without a rhythm?

Take me with you
let me be a vagabond
to ease you on your travels
let me live my life behind you
separate but connected
I want to see what you see
but in a different way
I want to take pictures of mountains
and hear metal music muffled outside clubs
I want to share your moments
but then have my own as well
and then we can come together
and tell each other stories
as we make our own as one.

City streets
and urban life
have their own crisp flavor
like a strawberry on a December morning
a taste of spring in winter's cold.

I want to kiss you
behind the frozen waterfall
that lives now as a fairytale
inside my memories.
You see, that's what you do.
You take dreams I've crafted inside my head
and twirl them through your fingers,
spilling color from your breath;
you make them real.

It's hard

because I want to tell the world
of all the happiness you give me,
but no amount of words I scribble down
can ever express adequately
all the things you are.

I've tried

writing songs and writing poems;
you're the hero in all of my stories,
because even in writing fiction
you creep in, because finally
the real world reflects
what I've seen in my head.

You shine

like every star that's ever lived,
like every sun expanding, endless in the universe,
and I look up to you
and we stand equal in this space
and we are one.

It's love.