I wonder whether we'd see ourselves
on a dainty handheld hologram
stuck between bookends
with titles of worn-out type
one sentimental winter afternoon
many moons from now...

Perhaps then we'd have outgrown counting months:
we might as well count the years
like they do the stars on a tranquil night,
naming the myths and figures
they've burned into our insight;
we'll dream of constellations—
islands of starlight that stood out
in an already pleasant sea
of living life with you.

like night misses day
It’s the feeling you get
when your eyes can't wait
to see the blessed sun
so they refuse to shut
lest they miss the wake of dawn...

But I know I should rather sleep
to pull myself faster to the break of day
than to stay up conversing with Cupid
about how she's been and what's gone her way...

I suppose my demons
have their ways of inciting the urge
by pestering my mind
with phantasms of her...

Why does the night have to drag itself so sluggishly?
I still miss her like night misses day.
If only the moon would give me the courtesy
of winding the sun every evening
so that it might never leave me be;
might she shine on my face forevermore?

I know what makes your burn
It's the dim of a moonlit night
and the saunter of lips up hills and valleys--
It's the crackle of cigarettes
atop our pleasantries
and the spill of sweet talk
made unchained by our mouths

To be covered in love until the following dawn
dripping drops of lovey-dovey morning dew...
To be terribly in love until the following dawn
drinking shots like doting lovebirds do...

If I showed you a still from a Wes Anderson film
I'm sure you'd probably have a lot to say--
a multitude of ideas waiting to pour forth from your mouth
and brimming off the top of your head...

I'd gladly spend as many hours as I'd need
waiting for you to empty your excitement
as you talk away about the things you love
in that adorable manner of wanting to say so much

Believe me when I tell you
your impassioned expressions
are more entertaining in their own cute way
than any feature film I can recall

Serve me a dish
of things I never knew
and stuff I could say
I only learned today

the ill-tempered autumn wind does little to sway an evergreen

whose timber column rings thus of doggedness unseen.

there may have been moments when leaves would wither here and there,

but its blanket of foliage has fought to keep its verdant hue--

whether caught in snow or shaken by pelting rain,

whether trampled undue by the trudging of time

or battered somehow by a certain bane...

the fact is, he's been here for so long:

he's taken after the colors of her writing pens

like mixed laundry bleeding its red unto a wash of white linens--

alas, sometimes I find myself lying beneath the boardwalk

drowning in her songs and sifting through a gallery of her smiles.

this has been the most meaningful three quarters of any year

i have had the privilege of co-authoring with someone so dear.

I've been afflicted with this you-centric pareidolia.
To be convicted of drawing your face
on every passing passerby
implies the weight of a final farewell coda
goes beyond the gloom hovering over a looming goodbye.

And it's an ill that goes beyond daytime hallucinations...
Every time I read a book I wonder
whether the same ideas from the words down and up under
have had their ships drop hook on the shores of your imagination.

While my mind succumbs itself to your endless regime
I implore you to tarry aboard my train of thought:
depart not soon—heck, pester me amidst daydream
even though I know a waking man ought
not spoil himself that way.

i see drops of water tracing the lines of your hair--
it's like you're crying but you're happy and i swear
even a painter couldn't muster the awe to bear
the sight of you under showering rain

i see nightlights peeking behind your silhouette
and the tones of your flustered blush try not to separate
themselves from the warm comely palette
of the shot of our figures in loving embrace

i see a blanket folded into your solemn sleeping shape
with curves smiling back; in a way, i wouldn't escape
had you had me landlocked within your pretty landscapes...


hug me tight
so that i might see
just how pretty you can be
under the soft glow of a burning moment

she's a park bench witness
to my marked French kisses
and her pulchritude pulls me to say
not even Clark Kent's mistress
can push me out of her flames

"The clock lies!" is the diatribe of a fiery romance.

He stockpiles a little side of diary parlance

in the form of littered poems.

To think the road has stretched itself so far

despite home so closely etched and still familiar

seems but a big lie.

Alas, I've never rambled so far from day one

as I have with her, stapled to hours that weighed like none

other before them.

I'm happy to say that so far as we've walked

the street lamps still shine despite the scaled distance

and sunsets spill to night in nonpareil vibrance

just as they had when we first held hands.

I don't think you know I used to listen to Chet Baker.
He's likely sung me to sleep once or twice by now,
but I lost him to time and blues, hidden upon layered
snowfall flung from new ears and new sounds.

So it came as a surprise I'd see him again
elsewhere somehow late one night before bed.
It baffles me you listen to such songs
when most people would rather hear a track from Red.

Our tastes may not align a hundred percent of the time
but at least your palate is something I admire
despite its wayward crimes and objections with mine,
for all its, let's call it, bona fide desire.

However, in the many instances they shake hands--
when they share stances and break lines in the sand--
those moments make me proud I met you.
Not many people can juggle in tandem.

After all, it takes two to know tango is best
when both are aware of exactly how either
would break the rules of the dance
to bend the movements to their own fancy.