I feel the call from the oceans,
the voices whisper from its breeze.
Snow and satire can't label the mindfulness of
memories slowly coming back to me.
My mountains have missed you so much,
my legs miss the warmth of your thermos,
I miss your gentleness and subtlety.

Priority one. If you don't think you will make it by Tuesday,
I'll travel back in time before we were forty degrees,
you can read the seraphs on my signature
if I can lay in your sheets for a week.

Chrysanthemums all over the hallways, Irises in azurean hues.
The charter won't take us all the way to the break wall,
I'm at the airport trying to reach you by phone.
I'd take the flavor of your spirit,
over the sweet coolness of truth,
Slide my fingers into the holes in the jeans you always wear for me when I come home.

The only thing I write off are pages,
Tables marked with the ends of so many words.
Who are you to know what you can do without
The more I've learned, I realize I'm happier with the less I know.

The pass of the time, a simple excuse that pretended to manifest an evolution, freed her conscience from the embarrassment she had felt for her own naive past-self.

as i sit
unperturbed it seems
i feel the familiar itch
of the nicotine screen
at the back of my head
in the conscious unseen
i feel the familiar itch
of the nicotine screen
my eyes adrift
in the circuital seas
i crave a quick drag
of the nicotine screen
scratch the itch
wipe the conscience clean
but i'll soon lust again
for the nicotine screen

With fierce eyes turned towards the dawn
A tightly balled fist rose to the heavens
Parting smiles, carbon particles, and atoms
Collided and separated

And in the split of an atom second
The world caved into her mouth
Diffused with saliva-like opinions
And spit into the ocean fusion

A tear of wish amongst the sea foam rocks
Dashed by the sharp pangs of truth
Cutting deeper into her gaze
I fell out of expectation

Without a breath of hope under the torrent
Faltering a rescue of a retracted hand
Mirrored to the sky and sea
A lover gone to a memory

© 2015 Neal Emanuelson

A Beast shakes me awake.

I am lying next to you,
and I watch your chest slowly
rise,
fall,
rise,
fall,
your soft breaths even
except for
the occasional sharp inhale;

A Beast  tilts my head the other way.

I am staring into empty space,
but soon enough my brain recreates
my cacophony of thoughts,
shredded wisps of what was and what
has yet to be.
A woman with honeysuckle skin
trails her finger along my jawline,
and I melt into her.
She is not you.

A Beast makes me look into your eyes.

You're awake now,
and your eyes glint with enigma;
They flicker with something unknown
before you look away.
You are not honeysuckle.
You are as sharp as each of your
pen strokes on paper,
crisp as a newly typed  narrative,
a Colossus of all that was
and all that has yet to be.

A Beast asks me if this is what I want.
He tells me he knows the answer.