Would you break your silence
As the tide washes over me?
Lend me your lips for one last kiss
Before I'm thrown into the awaiting abyss
It's become abysmal to walk the surf
Without holding your hand in mine
And the soft pallet of your laughter
Drowning out the music from seashells

It makes what time we have
Feel like a short eternity
But names written in the sand
Have a tendency to wash back out to sea

There's footprints I follow
Will they lead me to the beating in your chest
Or are they where I've already been?
Have I touched the tender ache of your skin
The way I dig my toes into the sand
And feel the ocean caress me like your finger tips
Have I known this all along
Or have I sank to the bottom
Lungs filled with melodies of woeful maladies?

It makes what time we have
Feel like a short eternity
But names written in the sand
Have a tendency to wash back out to sea

When the tide comes in
Would you break your silence
Would you struggle to save me from my fate
Would you cry if you were too late
When the tide comes in
Would you forgive me for not staying

When the tide comes crashing in
There's a tendency to wash back out to sea

It makes what time we have
Feel like a short eternity
But names written in the sand
Have a tendency to wash back out to sea

Tiresome he choked
Scuffling on the cold wood floor
Waxed thoroughly, his eyes meets the cracks of another him
An alternate view adjacent and new
Conquering the present with its futuristic view
Wounds appear, slapping, scrapping, and screeching
He doesn’t want this life
It’s not his for the keeping
Gliding across, fingers numb and broken
His tears fall too loudly, rudely outspoken
Another him gleaming and cunning
Wraps his wrist with grips unreal
Forcefully pulled, head first into another him
Unwillingly christened, knees bandaged and bruised
New, He stands up tall, forgetfully leaves behind
The now scuffed, raw *****, cold, wood floor

Kiss me
kiss me now
kiss me forever in the moonlight
kiss me wherever it feels right
just kiss me

I squint  just right
And capture a memory almost forgotten
Jars of fruit and honey fresh from hives
Filling shelves in old smokehouse
Home-made butter and molasses
In her kitchen
Waiting to smother
Biscuits warming
On black cast iron wood-stove
Boxes of buttons
An old cameo
Split wood in corner
Old sleepy dog on porch
The house on the hill
Where Mom's Granny rocked

r ~ 16Feb14