This bracelet
This bracelet means nothing, really
Just some plastic beads
Black thread
Uncomplicated knots with strings of offset orange, yellow, green.
It’s just a bracelet.

But it’s your bracelet.
Your bracelet.
The replacement for the blue one I lost in New York
The one I hated myself for dropping
But you never did
You just fixed it
And every time I see it,
It’s like I’m there with you again

My heart leaps from my chest
At it’s shining, vibrant face
Smiling at me like an old friend
Because that’s what we are

When I’m nervous, I twist the band
The beads click and dance and sing in my fingertips
I think of it like those ruby red slippers
Maybe if I click it enough times you’ll appear next to me

I wish that were how it worked
Wished the bracelet could talk me down
Off of this ledge of conclusions
But it can’t.
We will never be the same...
Unlike the bracelet.
Because when it comes together on my wrist,
Kissing the skin you used to

It feels like you
It feels like home

&the world was small
compared to that of
hearts and flowers

And poems were only
whispers among the trees
that you weaved with
your frail
F I N G E R T I P S

You are the bright
light against pale
paint, the tiny curve
in the corners of
a smile--
the quiet
S
H
A
D
O
W
S
in the pages of a book

You are all the
beautiful things
--if ever eternally--
(so slightly your life flickered)
you are.

(2.22.15)

The whole world is wrong.
Wrong -
     defined by not being right,
     defined by people who know themselves better than I.

The whole world is at my fingertips.
My fingertips -
     wrought in rust,
     wrought in hues of iron butterfly wings,
     wrought in the language of dead, forgotten things.

The whole world is somewhere in the universe.
Somewhere in the universe -
     lost in the void of space,
     lost in the void of time taken to meet ourselves,
     lost in the void of where lost things look real,
     lost in the void of what could have been and what could be.

The whole world is wrong,
     wrong
          wrong.
The whole world is wrong,
And it is right,
     Wrong and right, full and empty,
     Timeless and running out of time.

The whole world is gone.
     It was never meant for me.

I drank one bottle of ***** by myself
Just so I could forget
How your fingertips felt on my Body
But now I am here
Drunk and Alone
And Even though I cant remember my own name
The only thing I can think about are
Your fingertips on my aching body
And How I am never going to feel them
Ever again

We keep reaching up
Young fingertips touch it
For a moment
Never able to grasp it
Before it slips away

We keep reaching up
Flailing in futility
Tired fingertips yearn
Wishing to reach higher
Before it slips away

We keep reaching up
But look down
Feet planted firmly in the ground
Cold fingertips stagnate
Before it slips away

We want to reach up
As it slips away

the touch of someone's skin on another's
has been written about plenty already
but I swear to you
his touch is like no other
so innocent and fragile
but commanding and strong
yet gentle and caring
while he bites me all along
the sting and the numbness
the tickle of his tongue
his touch is like no other
so right though so wrong
all my softness in his clutch
his being needs no guide
he knows where and how to touch
as his eager mouth finds mine
his tracing fingertips bring chills
up my chilly and bare spine
his touch is one that nearly kills
but I am on cloud nine

sometimes my words can hit so instantly
that just the way that  they flow from me
powered by imagination is the best to be
its at my fingertips and its my magic key
I put my heart and soul in my creativity
making masterpieces throughout my poetry