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.

When writing about oneself
ceases to scratch that awful
self-absorbed itch,

and the heart realizes
that writing about others
and what they've done to us
is the same itch masked
in a fresh disguise,

the trail of words
leads away from "I"  --

   like breadcrumbs
   dropped at intervals
      for poetic feet
         to follow --

            -- at last finding the untamed

where one is more than a mouthpiece
for sorrow or rage,

   for ignorant opinion or
       self-righteous argument  --

where the horizons are bounded
not by fear but imagination --

The irony: what one keeps thinking about,
one keeps thinking about
convinced that integrity depends
on never letting go.

Egotism
fettered by a soul
feels sorriest for itself.