You say —
"Tomorrow is another day."
Like it's a good ******* thing.
You don't know about
My yesterdays but
My todays are numbered.
I'm falling away,
Giddy in the undertow...
Howling at the moon.
I want to write sonnets on your skin
with my tongue —
Eat your boiling core like a starving wolf.
Give me a reason
To stay,
And I'll dance, whirling in the craters of
your soul.

The snow piles up and is then washed away
like the change in an alcoholic's wallet,
appearing too briefly to instate a memory,
whilst the world remains unchanged, come morn.

Last year I smiled with tears in my eyes
as the snow fell and I waited for the bus.
I could feel the onset of a great transition;
but I had to lose my mind, before I found myself.

It has been a long year of beer bottled ash
and months spent catching up on lost sleep.
The pills came to take a weight from me,
until I gained the strength to carry the rest.

Songs have appeared with omniscient timing
to carry my breath through the bulrushes
of the river that never seemed to reach a source.
I am still looking for the ocean blue, the view

that will take me from these seasonal lows,
to a place where I can thaw out and live.

Absent father, suffer mother
missing hand that held the other
breath of life, given to smother
the future of sister and brother

We stepped out of the theater and I squealed
The three Africans seemed in varied states of distress over the snow
The father, grumpy as always, plowing his way through the flurry to the car
The mother, giddy but exhausted, thankful she didn't have to run a marathon this year
And you, cold as ever, clinging to my hand like a branch jutting over a freezing cold river
I laughed and smiled and I saw the snow pile up in your hair and on your broad shoulders and you shivered and tried to stop me from sliding across the icy ground
We all slipped into the car, trying not to let the fat snowflakes sneak in
I practically fell in the door, icy crystals forming settlements on my head
You took one look at me, stroked a lock of my hair between your finger and thumb and gazed, wide eyed for a brief moment
"You have snow in your hair." You whispered, giggling. You gently tugged my face towards yours by my damp curl
And you kissed me

We hold hands in church service
My back - board straight
A tree with gnarled roots
White knuckled focus
Your shoulders slumped
An old stone with weathered features
A fog of sleep clouds your face
And your fingers are limp in mine
When the band plays -
White knuckled focus
The tendons in your hand supple -
Out-standing
You tap imaginary chord patterns on the back of my hand
The muscles of your fingers being plucked like piano strings
Chord after chord
And I relax my shoulders
And become an old stone with you