You call me the one while holding a mirror
The cracks you see will always be mine

Smile or frown, not but a shallow grave,
never gave it much thought
All will be bygones soon enough

Yet at night, or at dawn, my heart softens
With wine it turns to liquid

Quicksilver love
Creatures in winter fog
And I yearn for the light touch of fingers against velvet, the curve of my back

To the right music my heart will break into
a thousand pieces of delicate porcelain

Division bell in a lighthouse at the west coast in Denmark
Oh, put me back together, you,
with golden poetry and call me art
Give me your story of choice

And did you know?

When the sun hits the snow and makes it sparkle like your warm, ice blue eyes I want to cry
Tears of unfathomable, unreasonable pain

The beauty of it all, the beauty of you,
of fireflies whirling trough cities, lost in dreams

Still

My inner life is but a daydream
Oh, words, please fail me
My smile, please betray me
I cannot live up to this oasis of emotions

The wall is too high
The wall is too thick

And honesty would break our hearts

Imagine a world in which
you lived in a little house
in the middle of the woods --
an itty bitty cabin with creature
comforts and small necessities,
and paper and ink and tables and chairs --
in it
you slept and wept and dreamt,
and would walk and walk
never finding anywhere else...
always returning to your teeny front door.

The cabin sits in silence,
in semi-darkness most of the day --
the path of the sun moves
l a n g u i d l y
through the sky
and the neighboring trees
cast puddles of shade.

You wish for
companionship,
though you
aren't sure
what that means.

Sometimes,
along your garden fence
you find little bits of paper
or tissues
or wind-swept bottles
butting up against the slats.

The papers have names
and bits of stories:
of shootings and stabbings and
conniving schemers,
of donations and creations
and family boat-races;
and you wonder who these people are,
or if the pages are ripped
from some book you don't own --
and if the wind blows in
toward your tiny little home...
mustn't there be a way
to get out?

I went there without you.
Long drives aren't too long
if you imagine you are on a subway car
in New York City, sitting next to
a lady who smells like cauliflower
and a hint of grief, who tells you
that it's not as dark as you think
it is, Sugar, because you're the one
covering the light.

To which you may respond
but I am not seated!
I am floating!  All around
me in empty space is
empty space and no
light can pierce it!

To which she responds with a
chuckle and an offering of
licorice gum, which you
respectfully decline
because the taste reminds you of
your grandma, who passed away
in March as she slept
(BEWARE THE IDES OF MARCH)
and left your mother weeping
at the front door,
hoping she'd come visit again.

To which the rest of the car
bursts into a danse macabre;
a movement over the grave and
into a place much colder than
underground.  They, The Wholehearted,
sway with their bones rattling
in harmony until they clatter
to the floor as marrow meets metal -

then the headlights
jolt you here again,
and you realize that
hundreds of miles
of lonely road await you.

I can measure my life in lonely roads.

I see you not, but completely
Your eyes twinkle
You and my thoughts smother me in goose pimples
Pores, blemishes, weathered wrinkles
Delicious Pigment, salt and pepper sprinkles
Your imperfections are my weak spot
Aesthetic flaws a turn on
Dark lashes
Dreamy brown eyes
How your eyelids crinkle when you squint in the light
An impulse to run my hands through your ebony hair
behind your ear, let me linger here
And down to the sides
Of your neck
Your skin reacts with my breath
To touch with mine, that bottom lip
That thought's enough to make my tummy flip
The desire to explore your face
Is impossible to articulate
I don’t possess the vocabulary
To do you justice poetically
But can we get back to your neck
For just a sec
You know, that part just below your ear
Has me longing to place my mouth there
And I’ve not yet mentioned your hands
How I yearn for them to explore my lands
Entwine them in mine, till the thickness of your fingers and the Slenderness of mine, in time, demand change
I’ll open my palms inviting your embrace
Aroused by the pressure and the weight and pace
Your fingers trace my face
And brush my lips, I turn my head, closing my eyes
Savouring the skin on skin collide
In encouragement and moorish praise
Wondering if our thoughts are the same
Speaking words I would never have usually found
Or said out loud
But how can I rephrase
I'm high on dopamine pathways
My mind a maze, my body ablaze
You are a drug
I can't overdose enough
My brain rewards with desire and lust
An addictive thrill, a heightened rush

Daydreams end and drugs wear off
Realities crush
Until the next time I get high on you and us

Drunk of dreams
hold by waiting,
treacherous eyes
keep watching,
take me home
or i will follow it
on my own
with these fragile limbs.

Vulnerable part
on consistent image
through broken mirror,
too much gravity
can change the atmosphere.

You're just another daydream
or another catastrophe.

the floating liquid pearls
from the Moon clouds--
and--
the smell of Sunday.

the window, a shield from the rain
yet I Feel it in me
as I drip out--Drop, by
drop.

through a cord, Chopin walks into my ears
and sits--
never begins but has been playing,
as droplets become piano keys.

far away, a chime Echoes
from a spiderweb of
iron, under a velvet sky
full of ghosts.

little golden moons line the shops,
and their moonlight blends into the fallen water,
and paints the Street
with an aroma of rose.

the dull click of shoes on cobblestone
crescendos
to where I linger--
i turn, and he takes me by the hand.

each step, a note--
we move with the Rain.
composing a piece already written,
already played.

in joins the rose, and the
watercolor moons--
two fragments of stars
dancing underneath the rest.

but I slip; fade,
a halfstep removed,
and like the cobweb clouds outside my window,
my mind rolls on.