long ago there was a beautiful girl by the sea,
and she told me that if
we can find love,
and that is all we can hope for.

she took my hand, and led me
down to the coves, to a woman,
who rested her hands on the rocks,
where the sea met the cave.

she whispered to me in the summer breeze,
as my linens rocked on the lines,
she led me across the sand
away from home.

when the skies grew dark,
she carried me home
across the grey waves,
she sang with the voice of storm rains.

as the stars came out,
she pulled herself onto the rocks beside me
and we lit lanterns
in the warm summer night.

i remember her as the winter sky
envelops the horizon,
as i gather my bags,
walk away from the caves we called home.

no longer does her voice sing in the coves,
nor am i allowed to become lost
in her teasing eyes,
let her voice lul me across the world.

all i have of her is a distant memory,
an echo of the voice that drives me mad,
the sounds of the water lapping lazily at the sand,
the smell of a warm summer breeze.

a soft touch -sand on my feet,
linens brushing my skin
rough rock under my legs,
and the ocean far below my cove.

what chance does the rain have,
of fixing a broken heart?

i told you once that i didn’t love you,
on a cold morning,
as raindrops fell from the swollen clouds.

so similar to the rain on a day,
when drumbeats sounded from the canvas of stars,
and our faces turned to watch the heavens open up,
phantom hands grasping each others.

i lay alone under the clouds,
listen to the afterworld pour it’s sorrows,
sliding down my bedroom windows
remembering a night you held me close
and i couldn’t breathe.

i told you that you’d hold me,
that day
forevermore
and you held me, and held me,
until i felt like i was on fire,
so i set myself in stone.

as the stone cracks,
i feel the rain on my face again,
and i long to hold your hand
watch the god’s home above
as they shed tears for us,
this small world
under storms of fires and drums.

lip-gloss smiles,
cracked, glassy and clear,
smiled from meadows while imagining-
imagine white summer linens,
dark denim shorts and wind-whipped hair,
short and sweet.

long silver chains, shining shells,
music lining up with a girl’s heartbeat,
who desperately wishes for once
that it was warm
and the stars opened their hearts,
and indie bands played at festivals in lavender fields.

ignore the fact that we’re all alone,
trying to brush off the pain,
shedding tears of contrition,
because we gave up lip-gloss kisses long ago,
along with the hand that ran through our short hair.

pretend you’re alone,
but on a skiff,
with bright white sails,
wearing windy linens,
eating soft ice-creams,
waving to the fishermen off the island.

really, you’re alone,
alone alone,
missing the feeling of intertwined hands,
a creaky old swing-set, swinging
in the prairie winds.

it’s new year’s eve,
let’s set the house on fire,
a respite from the fireworks,
the cheer and sweet kisses,
a shield for desperation -hopelessness,
lifetimes of cobbling together spare change
from thankless jobs.

let’s listen to music,
predicting the apocalypse,
anarchist revolution coming back,
desert rebels and cheap masks,
plastic laser guns and old comics,
signs of washed out revolutions.

and we’ll talk and wonder
-about our lives,
wash ourselves down the drains with
the blood red wine,
toast with triumphant roses,
rising with the bubbles
dreams encased until they drown and
pop.

can we call ourselves rebels,
revelling in the moonlight,
dancers under stars,
wrapping ourselves around our bodies,
to the music,
the champagne,
the thankless year’s,
as they go on and on.

pony-tailed playmate
head tucked in her shirt
gazing steadily down
at her toes in the dirt

chaos tiptoes around her
naive oblivion
journeys in far away lands
just west of the meridian

watercolor fairy tales
bleeding outside the lines
unaware of the danger
unaware of the signs

let me sit with you, darling
in the dampened flower beds
and paint a new world
for us in our heads

some days are colder than they are
warm.
and others are like stars in the sky
-lanterns in an otherwise endless night.

some days you wonder if you should try to leave at all,
if you should just go back to your books,
your music.
and other times you show your face to the world,
dance in clothes that you no longer hide in.

some days you agree that you’re ugly,
worthless,
useless,
and you allow them to draw their brushes across your faces,
making you pretty.

pretty. you’d never know.

and others say we tell them that we’re all beautiful,
but we sure aren’t pretty,
and there’s nothing wrong with our insides,
or perhaps the way we’ve chosen to show ourselves
-it’s all perfect.

every ugly bit.

some days we feel as if our worries,
heartache,
sadness,
emptiness
make this life worthless,
and we believe that that’s all we have
-that they’re worth ending it all over.

we’re wrong.

nothing’s worth that
-there are beautiful things like love,
courage,
smiles,
songs,
and our very own lives.

as ****** up as we may think they are.