Is the moment
That I spent
With you

The Ukulele string snaps
a small stream of blood from your ring finger,
but it's not gloom or sorrow
but contorted contentment...
When you fill your cup
up to the brim with cream
and it doesn't go over
the edge.
When you peek around
the corner and see your
favorite store open,
with that one book inside
you've been waiting to grab
for years now, but you never did.
When you walk through the woods
when the scenery secludes you
from civilization;
the temptation to give into
the nightingale's melody which
slices the silence with its melancholy tune.
You breathe in the air
on top of the dune; sandcastles, sandhills
childish screams as you yell 'seek!'
giggles and yelps of excitement.
A newborn baby cradled closely,
the warmth spreads through your body
like when you finish a book, not a series;
a novel of great adventure;
the sigh of great relief.
On a cold autumn night,
when you wrap the blanket around you,
trinkets on your nightstand,
the pleasure of closeness' embrace,
the comfort of a lovers touch,
intertwined between each seam of your covers.
As the rain paints your windows crystal
your watercolors touch the canvas,
your jewel, Cupid's arrow through your heart
but it's not love, as defined in dictionaries, legends, or myths.
The breeze moves the window drapes
paint drips on your jeans and you laugh;
why not paint the walls crimson or azure!
Why not travel the world in a broke-down Van,
stopping every thirty miles for another can
of gas or root beer or what have you?
Why not get seven cats and name each one
after your favorite deserts?
What if you paint the sky orange?
What if you grew fins and sprung into the blue ocean?
What if trees were purple not green?
What if the Library of Alexandria was still here?
Swinging round and round;
the melody from the record player
grabs your arms and makes you fly
to the moon and back,
your laughs heard around the world...

I am seeming to wait for a thing which is already here.
It has neither arrived or appeared.
To whom could this One appear?
Is this philosophy? This is truth.
There is a thought, which persists, "Yes, but why this?
Why this life? this scenario? These characters?"
And the reply comes, "Why not?" -
Is someone else somewhere else
living my own wildest imaginings?
It is all an imagining, isn't it?

I wish I loved you as much as you loved me.
Then I wouldn't have lost so much skin in your game
that I thought I was truly living rather than paying to play.

I used to think.
     Freedom was a place far off.
Now I see.
     Freedom is what I am.
I used to believe.
     I was bound by another.
Now I know.
     I am bound to nothing.

Take what you know - as truth -
discarding all else. This is the way.
I used to hold to things - onto a thing.
But now I am spirit
needing nothing. Now all things
pass through me.
I see everything and hold nothing.

So little
is as perfect
as right now, and

so few things
are as wonderful
as it is

right now

I wanted to shut myself off from reality.
To escape from myself most definately.
But be careful you don't end up like me,
or bill collectors will sue you eventually.

I look up at the sky
So blissful and dark
So clear
Filled with an ocean of stars

And

I'm comfortable

Not happy
Not pleased
But comfortable

Because I have a sliver of hope
That even tho you live thousands of miles away
You're looking at the same star I am
And smiling, the same way.