Is it ambiguity that frustrates you;
instead it was my gift to you

But why question a bird in its cage
or a caterpillar in its cocoon?

That is not the life that matters,
only the life to become; creation
is not destiny and destiny is not
the past for as the bird is released
so too are words into your mind
to fly where they may

Do not hold them fast; let them
take you where the vastness of
your imagination and dreams
may go because you will not see
the cage; it will remain empty
without memory or purpose

The sky is who you are; there is
nothing left of the past or what
someone may have felt or thought
at the time; the words have become
your own, changing, mutable, free

Love in an elevator
Procrastinated "see you later",
and how I ******* hate her.
An attest to me?
No, attest to thee,
And protest the conquest
for outdoor reccess.
No I didn't break it,
I found it that way.
No love in an elevator,
Satiated, recluse motivator.
See the rust on the bones?
They happened when you were home alone.
Home but not alone.
Check your sunrise, check your phone.
I will check it before I wreck it,
and remember she still deserves respect.
Despite the state of the insect.
We all need love.
Not some hope from above.
A genuine sunrise check.
A dauntless morning peck.
The hope for this comfortability
The mind's wish for mobility
The endless denial of futility
And my endless conquest for you.

Hold my hand, you'll never be lost ..
Trust my love, I know where the road is ..
It's dark .. it's crowded .. it's ambiguous ..
I won't turn my back on you ..
A home .. a life .. a journey ..
Is all i'll give you ..

A brief, but passionate inhale.
Who would have thought,
of the autumn in her eyes?

A sweet, delicate voice.
A beautiful sound to detect.
And never forget.
And never regret*.

The stud of a nose
Her own clothes and eloquent verbose
An unheard of strength
That she shrugs off like dirt.

And she knows of Dad.
Because she has been there too.
Not just for the smell of *****,
Or for the pain of just one bruise,
But for the depth behind
A clenched fist
and the struggle for eye contact.

It was 6 AM.
In the autumn.
And things just happen.
But see,
it wasn't just a thing.
It couldn't be.
The way I held your hair
And hid it safely behind your ear.
And accepted the kiss
That my fear could not initiate myself.

It was the blue,
And the blonde.
The black of the beanie,
And the spots of the sweater.
It was the look
and the smile
and the inhale.

And then
it was the stars.
And the stone wall.
And the Boston skyline.
It was the teasing.
and the alcohol
and the spot by the river.
And it was autumn in her eyes.

It was heaven in the trembling of my knees,
and in that kick in the shin,
and in the brownie brittle,
and in the passionate kiss in the room upstairs.
It was hell in the uncertainty.

And as the time will pass,
We will attract or repel.
Naturally.
And where this ambiguity chills me to the bone,
I find autumn in her eyes.

Skies are hues of sullen smoke,
pavements glossed in rain;
falling softly, picturesque.
Where does the water drain?

Hands of many compromises,
eyes engulfed in pain.
Washing worries with off-brand soap.
Where does the water drain?

The daydreams, they are staring back
irises of shame,
that only scrutinize themselves.
Where does the water drain?

Tears are not expelling,
the force of strength; insane,
God swims inside them somewhere new,
Where does the water drain?

The only one who's ever seen
my soul beyond a windowpane.
A mist, a fall, a downpour,
but *Where does the water drain?

Hello.
Really have you cared?
Spare it.
I'm waiting for my real conversation.
For my real moment to connect.
Because I haven't ever.
I haven't ever felt that,
that sweet euphoria of intimacy. Of
enlarged pupils.
And apathy towards sweat.
And birthmarks.
And gaps in teeth.
And oversized guts.

I have told you
That love is the first of the emotions,
And the last.
Whatever lies in between,
Is a fatal confusion.
It fills the space.
And whatever that means to you,
is.
And that's okay.
Because
We cannot be told what it is.
We must fight.
And we must bleed.
And we must lose sleep.

For the last, most true level of enchantment
is enlightenment.
Enlightenment is finding this love.
It's scratching and
it's clawing and
it's kissing and
it's miserable and
it's the best thing you'll ever know.

And if you don't know,
you will.

So despite all of my hollow hellos,
and yours,
You are not devoid.
You are just scratching.
You are just clawing.
You are just kissing.
You are just enduring the misery.
Because you are here.
And you will.