The symphony of your skin
suffocated my senses.
Smothered my resistance
against the sensations
you sparked down my spine.
I surrender to your siren call,
my simpering protest
met with sinful seduction.

There is nothing beautiful that came to be without effort. Even the flowers had to push through the dirt to show its face to the sun.

Life is never a structured path that is well lit and fenced in. Life is not a road. Life is the wilderness that we are all crawling around in, blind, ignorant, and hopeful. You are not guaranteed to succeed, but if you are still alive you still get to be a part of something messy, strange, and beautiful. We all came from somewhere and took steps forward. The steps don't have to have shoes, don't have to be steady, and they don't have to miss all the puddles.

I am only a shell near your ocean, helpless to your pull,
Wave after wave tumbling across my seeking heart.

I am a person of almost and kind of.
I am a shadow of what I was
Hidden in the darkness of a past
Cast down by the light of the future.
This present of in-betweens
The liminal space in which I exist.
The here and there on the journey ahead.
I am the line between the points
The mystery before the solution
I am the median, the average, the midway
I am incomplete.
Pieces of a whole
unable to form the big picture.
This limbo of emotions
The neutral of positive and negative
Inactive, inert, insufficient.
This heart filled with grey
Longing to see through rose colored lenses
Paint my world with emotion.
Trade the silence for music.
To fit in the missing pieces.
But almost doesn’t offer solutions
And kind of doesn’t capture the horizon.

Anticipation, a frozen breath upon the wind.
Endings beginning where beginning's end.
I am captured in waiting.
Time marches on trading all of our nows for laters.
Deliberate and debate, I delay.
I am captured in waiting.
Vacant visage I sleep away seeking morning’s light.
The next day and still the next, always.
I am captured in waiting.

I am still in waiting.


I am in waiting.



I am waiting.




I’m waiting.





Waiting.






Wait.

I exhale my thoughts across the page.
My pen bleeds them into being.
The paper victim of open wounds to describe a hidden hurt.
This vicious dance of pain.
Breathing life to this war of love.
A mosaic of broken hearts.
Sharp edges of loneliness hidden in the mortar of hopefulness.
Is it fair to make believe a whole out of pieces?
To take these glass hearts and shatter them to make a masterpiece.
Taking the ruins of a life,
Puzzling them together.
A cobbled set of emotions.
Flashes of light against the surface of what once was.
Reflections of color, seeing beauty in the aftermath.
Perhaps hearts were never meant to remain whole.
Collecting parts of others
Quilting the fabric into a blanket
Warm enough to forget I am made of parts
Parts of everyone I’ve met.
Surrendering shards of me for the art of others
Taking pieces for myself to fill the gaps.

The theory of our relationship
A complex set of numbers
Are we where we want to be?
Are we who we want to be?
What do we become when we're together?
I hypothesize and fantasize the answers.
My only conclusion?
The       distance       between       us       is       too       cold       to       define.