Let's play strip poetry
until we're no more
than two souls
on Bojangles' shoes
tapping morse code messages
to the listening stars,
and should heaven ever hear us
we'll craft music for clothing
and wrap ourselves in symphonies
of the modern night.

I want to lie in bed with you.
Scratch that.
I want the feeling I had lying in bed with her.
I doubt you'll ever give me that feeling.
I'd still like to lie in bed with you
just to evaluate the difference.

It's as if someone has stopped the music
and no one has noticed but me.
This quiet is ugly, inside and out,
and smells of rotting orchestras.

That is a theatrical lie,
and an attempt to make you miss me.

The truth is, everything looks the same.
I hear the familiar jaded hum of living
and it smells like coffee and cinnamon.
I am hating the thought
of fading into a life without you.
Break my heart quickly
or love me 'til death
brings that quiet I lied about hearing.

Silently the composer crept
Through wheat fields blanched in silver moons;
Running his fingers through stalks of hair,
Keeping quiet the secrets of the night.
He ran to the lightbulbs glowing in the dew
And held in his mouth the owl's conversation.
In his nostrils swirled the reminiscent songs
Of honeysuckle and melon.
Daylight broke with him rolling in the dust
On the old wooden library steps.
He wiped the stares from their faces with a folded cloth
And tucked it neatly in his pocket.
He ran, with the tail of the wind and his bounty in tow,
Back to his humble beginnings
And emptied his pockets, his nostrils, his soul,
Onto the keys of a poorly-tuned piano.

I got your number off the bathroom wall.
I was hoping you could help me forget.
I don't need a girlfriend, so much as a canvas.
Let me paint you with the taste of her lips.

I need a toothbrush or two forefingers
long enough to coax your love from my throat.

This one will not pass quietly.

I sing our song to the music of drums and chandelier splinters/
of thousand-year oaks yielding to the wind.

Have you ever heard your heart break clearly?
It is less like 808s and more like breathless tears.

Your lips were made for Hallelujahs.
Nothing less will do them justice,
and nothing more exists.

When granted the joy of life's creation,
their Maker sang into the heavens
and choreographed their dance.

The breath that passes between their mountains
carries with it the secret signature
of death-defeating hands.

Your lips were made to form sweet praises
with all the spirit and humbled passions
your heart and soul enlist.