there are colors yet to be seen
and stories yet to be told
so i must set myself forth,
the traveller in the dark,
to pick up the loose threads
and see where they go;
leave the door open,
i will return soon.

writing on the backs of hands,
strolling along meadows and dancing in the rain,
running through fields of wild flowers,
lacing fingers and pushing swings,
laying beneath glowing ***** of light,
our feet pressing against this unshaken earth;
we tie the hands of time together,
whenever our paths entwine,
gentle acts of love and joy,
preserved in the timeless pockets of our minds.

The words hiding behind my mouth are cradled in my soft hands
Hold them, feel their heat, decode the messages under my skin,
Each of them from a language you cannot even recognize;
The familiar sights of home are nothing but
Empty bottles of knowledge kept away in a box only I hold the key to;
Run towards me and please please please listen to me, for
My words cannot bridge the gap between us although
I have tried; with
No clamor in the background,
Ask me to repeat myself once more, and please please please
Listen to me.

listen to the distant
echoes
of your
nostalgia;
all that
remain of your
dreams are compressed into
orbs of light,
carefully placed inside
an empty box;
leave your house and search the
idle sands of time for me,
x marks the spot.

i have spent time thinking
about your feet
and i have yet to thank them
for they have walked this earth
ever tirelessly,
ever inexhaustibly,
and have brought you

towards me.

there is a well
in the middle of the road i walk on the way home
everytime
everyday
every chance i get, i toss a coin inside
it's an endless cycle, a routine of stopping in the middle of the road,
tossing a coin,
and whispering your name
over and over again under my breath
the well is old and aged, its walls beginning to grow moss
but everytime i throw a coin inside
those mossy walls turn into a portal,
a gate into space
my coin lands into the nightsky, 
taking its place as one of the stars;

i have thrown many, many coins
and i am reminded each time
when i look up at night
that you take the form of a wish fit neatly into a coin,
and my wish lies among the stars.

you lie
in between my
syllables and words
in these
carefully arranged
lines
like a piece
of origami;

i hide you
in my
poetry.

i can
put words into
lines

and lines into
stanzas delicately
arranged on the
ground--
verses of my
design;

but what
words,
lines,
and stanzas
must i
string together
to make you

mine?

my page was too white
my ink was too thin
and i could not write
what my thoughts pencilled in;

slowly i sank
as the page remained blank
and the night turned to day
as i turned old and grey;

yet the pages remained hollow
and it filled me with sorrow;

but if there's one thing i could follow:
it's pain today and regret

tomorrow