There are times

when the moon is busy elsewhere
and the candles are growing old
that your eyes catch mine
in the simplest of ways

and send me.

When our gravity overflows
and we are drawn together
for reasons only the planets know,
I cannot place my finger on it;

I would likely lose my hand.

Those times I know
that a door handle decision
will be the difference
between goodnight and good morning.

I find no romance in the air tonight.
It would seem we have breathed it all in.

I can see the numbers rolling back behind your eyes.
Never know what the slots will bring.
When I told you I liked surprises
I didn't mean I'd like to find you spilling your mathematics
all over the bedroom sheets
counting how many times you could divide yourself
from yourself
and the languages spoken by mumbling mathematicians
always failing to find the difference
between their science and the love you needed.

I was 7 digits from talking you down.
You felt you were born 6 feet too high.
There are 5 times I can remember you laughing
the last of those was on the 4th of July.
     How can anyone believe they are free
     when we are bought at this calendar price?
You were laughing at the irony of the time it took you to say it.
Silly woman,
time is not made of numbers,
but of songs.

I replay that memory at least 3 times a night.
Your 2 shoes are the only music I'd still like to hear playing
I am currently discovering that 1 is not a lonely number.
I have spent cozy evenings
cuddled up with the burden you left behind.
It is colder than I remember you
and always seems to squeeze my neck
just a little too tight.
You wanted to become 0,
ignoring my side of this equation,
but before you left you swallowed my equilibrium whole.
I fell down bell curve cliffs
until my words themselves became improbabilities.
My love was more than average,
I mean...
I miss you.
I mean...
You're so **** stupid.
I mean...
I loved you.
I mean...
I love you.

If you and I are numbers
we are easily replaceable,
replicable as science has always wanted us to be.
I am telling you now
that no one else fits.
I should have told you that a few days ago
when I had more of you to stand by
than fragments of memories
each one passing, blaspheming your sum.

Sink into me.
Breathe slowly.
We'll burn the clocks
and drink our music.
Rest your wandering feet.
I've built you this home
of bone and song
and wrapped it in my skin.
Tell me your heart can beat for me.
Sink into me
until we forget all our fences.

i am tracing prophecies
on the scroll of your skin
forming my own words
over your tattoos
proclaiming you
invincible
fearless
free

You invite my melancholy out for a stroll.
It declines, as you knew it would.
Your wink: the absence of sun.

Somewhere between us is a Rhodes piano.
Roll with my eyes into the beyond.
Your speech: a muted drum.

Reflect her,
if you dare,
over the translucent image
of summer rain.

Hold her
long after her coffee is gone
and the walls are reminiscing
about the days of her scent.

Hold her,
if you dare,
after the rain is gone
and someone else's face
is staring at your obsession.

I won't blame you.

I can't do drugs like these doctors,
these stone faced professionals,
who take walks in the forrest
like a notch on their belt.
I can't close my eyes like the civilized do
when someplace near them is crying.
Somewhere I heard an old voice say
that our eyes are made for drinking,
that our skin is made for fingernails,
and our tears are meant to sting.
I can't sing when my eyes are open
because of the whirlpool's game.
I can't speak when there's music playing,
but I can scream at the fiery bumblebees
who mistake my ribs for their cage.
Alive, to me, is a word in motion:
our world in motion.
My body emotion
ransacks my neurons
and their electric chair.
I am slain, wide-eyed, at the sight of you breathing;
each wave eroding my shore.