When I first met you
I didn't know for sure but
I felt that your lips were the door
to a new home.

I loved the way you said hey,
There was something so comforting
about how you said it.
The way I immediately felt at ease.
My feet planted towards yours.
My knocks on the door waiting to be
answered.
My eyes neighboring yours
through the window of your eyes.
I didn't know for sure but I felt that you
were home.
Home in the sense of being close to
you.
Home in the sense of your lips
being the welcome mat
that introduces me to your smile.
home in the sense of being close
to you.
home in the sense of where ever I go you are there.

My eyes no longer neighboring yours.
But instead learning to see the world
through your eyes

I saw her every morning on my walk
i always waved back as i passed
she stood there staring never looking down
and waved her hand across the glass

she never saw me waving from the street
the girl was blind, had always been
still i waved back as i passed her house
a wave returned but never seen

I dreamed that she waved back
The girl would wave at me
But, just who was I fooling
Knowing that she could not see

She'd wipe the condensation
It felt so good on her hand
She couldn't look to see me
I was in another land

The girl up in the window
Watching, seeing no one pass
Sitting there in silence
With her hand upon the glass

But every morning as I'd walk by
I would wave to her up there
Sitting, watching nothing
With a red bow in her hair

I know she couldn't see me
She couldn't see me wave
She didn't know about me
Or the smile that I gave

I walk by every morning
Hoping one day that she'll see
Me giving her a gentle wave
And she will wave at me

Glance out a northern window
and Winter suddenly beckons,
just five days after Solstice,
begging me to think again
on my habitual dislike.
The marble-white stratus above
looks as soft as a woolen blanket
covering all the strange things
outside this world's sky.
A vacant calm descends.
And I am content to be quiet
as the scene outside,
Bucolic and static as
A winter scene by Brueghel.
I trace the bare branches that weave
all around, seeming to huddle
near closed and shuttered houses.
They emit a silent desire to be known,
uncovered, naked models to the season
and sharp as a line drawing.
All the stillness leads to reflection
on the world we forget in summer,
the hidden moles and groundhogs,
insects that no longer irritate,
allowing us to cease effort
and sit at the table in the sun,
eating stew and drinking mulled wine.
But those of us who are curious
walk in the snow, hearing sounds
we never noticed: the crush of crystals,
the crack of frozen branches.
Or when the snow falls,
there is a softening quiet,
a restful pause in the air
and we are entranced, standing to listen
without effort, to the soundless sound
of mind without thought,
of Winter.

I’ve seen clearer eyes than his,
but there has never been
a sharper image of myself
reflected
back at me
than I see in his.

Cracks in a window
Can they be just like mine?
No it can't be
So fragile
Everywhere
But still there
It can't pick which is worse
It must all feel worse
It's getting out of hand
It can't understand
Just let me shatter it now
But how?
I don't have anything to use
Maybe my hand
I can punch it
In a blinding rage
Sadness
An ugly sadness
So painful
A pain that I can understand
But I fear someone's gonna notice
They might just get upset
"Why'd you you have to shatter it!?"
I hear them cry in an angering sad
So I just sit and stare at the cracks once again
I can't disappoint
So I sit and stare for a long time again
Maybe they are like me
It can't be
It just can't

cold air is burning my face but the feeling is muffled, far away.
i look at you, stoic menace.
you are a block of ice and i am a flurry of snowflakes, raging, cold, soft.
you ask me what the heart speaks.
i do not know how to tell you what emotion is, just like i do not know how to explain to you what i am.

(things far too familiar are seldom easy to translate into a language someone might understand, a language that is not your own, a language you've forgotten the taste of)

mountains on my shoulders feel lighter than they should, and you take lightness to mean of less matter.
perhaps you think these mountains have a hollow center, are made of feathers.
you and i are two different forms of water.
i have known ice, and you have known snow, years before today.
i have known stagnance, you have known change, you took the word like an icicle to your chest, falling too far into your cave.
pull me out, you say, and i am frost lining your windowsill.
leave me be, you say, and you are a dull fog, whispering to glass.
through the glass, we interact.
you are trapped.

Do you know how it burns
When I'm not with you
And when I am?

When the river which is flooding
Behind the dam doors keeping it out
Holds all of its self,
frantic -
the world around it
might drown

Do you know how it terrifies
The brain that is aloof
From its spine

When the lightning strikes the air
for the first time beneath the clouds
And the teenager trying to sleep
Beside the window
hears it loud

Do you know how it rises
From the heart burning blue
Where it all began

When the trapped one keeps hitting
the door hard to come out

all it takes
is to watch out the window
any window
it’ll give you a frame
a frame to observe
observe out of it
and you will learn