A heartbeat- loud enough to drown out the sounds.
Gypsy rings- the ones that turn your finger green.
A fire- crackling past the perfectly pitched logs.
A silver chain- tangled and twisted like a drunken memory.
Chipped nail polish- fragmented in the shapes of places you have never been.
The lifeline on your left hand- too short for you to get anywhere that you want to go.
A faded tattoo- the one that you regret like your eleventh drink last night.
The red string around your wrist- the one that looks like trickles of blood when it is wet.
The laminated bookmark- the one you ever so eloquently placed in my heart and walked away.

You are the cover of my favorite book.
& when you open up I am at peace
There isn't a spot of you that I won't
Explore.
From your open arms to your open legs.
We are spontaneous.
In the places we travel.
My fingers but a mark to hold the page.
From my eyes to my hands
I always have time for you.
We are spontaneous
No matter where we are.
No matter who is around
From your open arms to your open legs.
You are the cover of my favorite book.
Your spine stretched against my hands

There it lay forgotten,
in the shelf gathering dust -
A chapter that had once been opened,
and halfway through shut.

Maybe some day,
in the future near or far
Another may wipe the cover
and with love pick it up

They might turn the pages,
might even read to the end
So don't expect your bookmark
to stay on the same page.

I just ordered
My third cup of coffee
After all, I am in good company
Words spilled before me.

Could they have known —
I will always look for
The smell of old books
In this digital world.

Words, my words,
My heart treasures
To put pen to paper.

Time is unkind
For a writer,

Nothing is ephemeral.

You are
A page marked by a folded corner
A love I will come back to
In the future.

She was a rose, pressed into the pages
Of a book, meant to hold a place.
Instead of a page in a book,
She held a place in his heart,
Which she thought she would always have.
But eventually, bookmarks are lost,
And stories are forgotten,
And all that is left is
The smell of the binding
As the book closes for the last time.

I’d like to call you a bookmark

because I want to think I can

remove you from my story at will.

But you’re more like a dog-eared page,

that remains creased 
long after it’s been remembered and unfolded.

When I flip through the pages

I’ll always catch my thumb on you

and try to find the lesson

you may or may not have taught me

about love

or myself.

But I’m pretty sure all you’ve left me with

is a deep, stinging paper cut

that makes me hesitant 
to ever pick up a book again.

YOU are the book that he wants to keep reading.
I'm just a bookmark, that reminds,
but always end up scattered, forgotten.

when she says she is empty,
she is not asking to be filled.
stretch her thin and you will see
gold
peeking through her worn body.
stretch her thin and you feel her
fire
burning what you hold.
do not hold her.
when she says she is numb,
she is not asking to feel something.
do not wait out her novocaine
mood
drooling down her chin.
do not wait out her novocaine
high
she is elated.
do not bring her down.
she is a bookmark holding someone else's place:
do not move her.
someone left her,
waiting,
she does not know the other side:
that does not mean you show her.
someday she will be fire.
she will dry all that she has soaked with her
ravine heart.
you will follow her black markings to something
gold
she will be followed.
do not be surprised when she does not moan,
she will not moan,
she does not feel.
she is still ice.
when she says she is ice
do not try to melt her.
she will be fire.