Melancholy coats cars like pollen,
smudging windows and mirrors,
making vision hazy
dripping from faucets like
incessant spacey teardrops.
It hangs just in front of your
eyes and
curtains their shining irises; it
sneaks through your lips in
whispered goodbyes.
When you leave, it
holds my cold hands
and plasters traces of you
to every square inch of my imagination.
At night, it counts
the ceiling tiles, then the floor
and listens in the morning
to my dreams from the night before.
Melancholy swells for miles between us, keeps
a seat empty next to me, and always
hopes for you.

Your gaze clings to me as if I were
the last line of your favorite novel or
the first star in the night sky.
Your voice has the cadence of prayer
as you unravel my past to make
a tapestry of my future.
It's all I can do to cry tears of honey,
and pour gratitude over
you like I could ever deserve
all the things you give me.

languidly glows in your cheeks,
just north of
the lip you split trying
to tell me you loved me without
saying you loved me.
Saturday morning
breaks burgundy behind
your head, silhouetting
every piece of heathered forgiveness
we earned without merit.
It rises and splatters
in my chest like laughter and it
shines from your eyes to
the edge of your jaw.
Saturday morning
solidifies sunrise in memory,
with its hallowed rays streaming
haloed from your long lashes. It’s
interlaced with the scent
of you,
suddenly flooding my shuddering lungs.
Saturday morning
swirls early in whispers like dew
steaming
toward balmy April ether.
It supersedes time as it
unwinds the hands on the clock,
flexing post-Friday and
stretching pre-Sunday.
Saturday morning is everything
delicate and divine
that is ever-coursing from
my soul to yours:
I love each Saturday morning
because I first loved you.

Come down from the heavens, honey;
Earth feels like hell when you're not here.

Midday is almost dark; the
ashen sky holds its breath
rain buzzes between cloud and sun
leaves drift, blurred,
in slow frames through molasses space
to kiss the sidewalk with
thundering authority.
Between the daisies, lightning sprouts and splits,
spitting stripped splinters into heaven
then pausing, fingers frozen, posed –
a portrait of aloof elegance.
Midday is blinding, deafening,
nature's cinematic masterpiece:
terrifying, thrilling, and everything but numbing.

Dramatic irony flowed freely
from all the poems I wrote
about how I didn't write poems about you
and wedged itself in the spaces
between my heartbeats.
And there you slept sweetly
warming my aching ribs and
getting drunk on my tears every night I
awoke weeping
for the miles between us,
and all the purported reasons I shouldn't love
you.
Now poetic justice tumbles forward
from desire into delight
it’s plastered to my skin
and it feels just like you.