Breathe me in like your last cigarette,
because you swear you're going to quit,
as the smoke swirls past your head
and heads east.

Drain my cup like the last coffee
you pour yourself, even though it's 11 pm
and you really should go to bed soon
because you never sleep enough.

Color between my lines like you tried
to show your little sister, when she stole
your colored pencils and scribbled
all through your sketchbook.

Give me the kind of attention you give
sunset on the beach,
because someting about it makes time stop
and brings you peace.

Love me,
even though the only time you ever thought
love just might be more than a façade or a con
left you detached and empty.

Love me,
because I promise
I'm already trying
to love you.

I should start breathing in more fresh air
And less cigarette smoke

My old habits of coming back to you:

Waking up in cold mornings only to find
warmth in your long gone arms

Tracing the stars in the night sky only to
notice similarities with your moles and scars

Reading through my favorite lines only to
remember that your words were poetry spoken to me out loud

Embracing silence within my room only to
remind me that this is how we end
that this is where you left
this is where I always try to find you
-in the air of silence

I've tired with denying habits
now
I wanna surrender in front of love

You are beautiful and I am not.
We are the habits of our forefathers.

We can choose to forget them, let them
Drain away like sand through glass,

Distant dust of history. As much as we try
To remember, desire is stronger than memory.

Sometimes I turn to sculpt soft clay,
Loose and stark in my hands.

And then I abandon the mess. I should keep
My fingertips stained red for effort.

I remember dreaming a vision:
Heroine of my own story,

Walking the grey beach in winter,
Projected far into the future when I might realize it.

Clay does not sculpt itself.
Prayers go unanswered. Here

I dwell in my own lit house,
Multiple yellow lights

Floating in the dark, mirror for
The starry night that I might see.  

We’re the only species with
Wings on our feet. We’ve molded

Paper into something precious.
Currency of kings. Gold origami.

Honeyed words remain my nectar.
Rome is a daylong process that is for ever.

To shape is a practice
Known by time and being,

That I may become a living embodiment.
That I might find grace in a raised arm, a bent leg.

That I might see myself through a filter of love.
That I might remember there are no

Comparisons.
That we are beautiful for our very selves.