it was cold
the sky cried
and inwardly,
i was parallel

but then the warmth
back to front
heart to heart
mind to mind
infiltrated me

lace against heathered grey
with a subtle hint of longing
and an even bigger
overshadowing
of need

not knowing what we wanted
or what we needed
awkwardly standing
as the tears began to cease
inside, outside

standing on sacred ground
for two purposes
lower, pushing forward
upper, pushing back
aligned with ease

it was a perfect fit
still is, to be honest
but the puzzle pieces get lost
in life and in strife
and come together
but once every turn of the days

but when the puzzle is finished
the tears will drench it
the warmth will break it down
and the hearts
for once
will be whole

I feel like I'm betraying you
Slighting you
Pressing you
I feel like I am asking you
For more than you can give.

I feel like I've astonished you
Bewildered you
Scared you
I feel like I have pushed you
Farther than you wish to go.

I wish you'd just tell me
How you feel
What you feel
If you feel
I wish you just push me away
Instead of leaving me hanging in despair.

I know you don't mean the silence
Or the emptiness
Or the cold
I know that if you read this
You'll feel guilty and think I'm too bold.

But I'm telling you right now that I can't think much more
On the time we should be spending
On the hearts we should be tending
On this rent we should be mending
Before my heart begins to crack.

I wish I knew how to ask you for what I need
But I can't.
Just can't.
I want you to show what you feel more often, and if necessary, use words.
I want to feel wanted, to feel like I'm just as huge a part of you as you are of me.
I don't think you'll ever comprehend what I feel about you.
Lightning.
One day perhaps you'll finally understand. But will I be too drenched in waiting to be able to accept your giving me what I've been waiting for for weeks?
I just want paragraphs. Words.
I want you to tell me what you feel, how you feel, why you feel.
I want to know you inside and out, the way I hope I am letting you know me.
But then there are words.
And we are at an impasse.

What does it mean exactly?
Well, I'll tell you.

It is the quickening of my breath when we hug
The whisper of your words in my ear
Your scent that clings to the shoulders of my shirts
The echo of your voice bouncing in my ears
The feel of your arms
The memories of your sweetness
The joys of the future yet to come.

That is what you mean to me.

I'm enamored.
Are you?

I can't believe the day has finally come
for a childhood favorite,
a tune I loved as a little one
to align its' lyrics with the lines of my life.

How long it will be till I see you again, I am not sure.
But until then...

Kiss me through the phone.

Well, hello there.
Awkward, isn't it? Reading what I say without hearing it for yourself?
I know it is for me. I want to see your face as I read everything to you, my face turning redder than yours ever will.
But I know I can't.

How is it
That what I write
Is something you find
To be beautiful?

Beauty is so subjective, darling, I don't believe we ever truly find it on this earth until the day we aren't searching for it.

Was I looking for you?

No.

But I found the most valuable beauty there is to be found on earth
In the solace of your arms, your smile, your scent, your heartbeat.

I wasn't seeking, and you weren't hiding.
But I found.

Case closed.

all that's changed in nyc
since he begged for a chance
that plea for peace
the power he gave the people
twenty years to be free,

is a body on the sidewalk
with a bullet in it's back
and six miles down the hudson
a space
where two buildings once sat.

my cheeks
my eyes
my emotions
my life

RED. ALL RED.

my poems
my music
my stress
my fingers

But then there is another.
"read."

He read the RED of my soul that I bled out without a care, completely forgetting that he is but a click away from reading me like a bloodstained magazine.
How could I?

I suppose it's nothing of consequence.
I mean, I tell him, don't I?

I try, at least.

It's not easy to put it into words, the RED that I feel.

It's not adoration. NO. It's something much stronger, much more substantial.

But I don't think it's love, not quite yet. So what is this RED that he gives me in the form of words and kisses, of warmth and walls?

It's up for me to scribe my own description, yet I cannot even begin to tell myself what I am feeling, never mind telling him.

I can't embarrass myself and turn RED
As I try to explain my RED
To the RED
that makes my life
whole.

May I bleed my thoughts onto a page, splattering the words in a sentimental frenzy of feeling?
May I?
Is it socially incorrect for my thoughts to soar as soon as his picture greets my eyes with the warm scent of his cologne afterwashing my brain?
Is it?
Am I allowed to close my eyes and hang his picture on the red curtains that cover them, leaving me to see him when I see nothing else?
Am I?

I ask questions such as these much too often.
     Do you deprive me the curiosity?
          Do you wish me gone?

Farewell then, my dearest friend.
You know not what I suffer.

Being told you are a beauty is beauty in and of itself.

Knowing he thinks that means the sainted world.
    But how do I know....unless he tells me?

May I ask, "Do you find me attractive?"

Is it socially incorrect for me to wish I knew his true intentions since he speaks so little about them?

Am I allowed to cry a little when I can only see him but once per cycle of the days and only dare to dream for the next meeting of our hearts, the next connection of my head to his shoulder?

May I?
Is it?
Am I?

Perhaps.