I haven't written in a while,
and my writing might be getting trite.
But though I can't speak for us all,
I know I'm sick of hearing lies.

I am a puddle for you to play in,
because you'll never spill my tears.
Your big eyes stare back at mine,
and I wish I could speak to you.
I'd promise you protection,
love and attention.
And by the way you lick and sidle up,
I know your intentions are the same.
See with puppies, there's no guessing,
there aren't games or deception.
You'll forgive me if I'm mad,
or lost and impatient.
As long as I pet you and keep you healthy,
you'll be my best friend.
No questions asked
nothing to defend.
And when I look in the mirror
and attempt to rip my collar off,
you'll be there sitting
with your head cocked to the side,
making me smile
when I want to cry puddles
for you to swim in.

Listening to the sound of the dog in the distance,
the song with the volume uncomfortably low,
Instead of your silent noise,
is my favorite rebellion.

We sit in the same room, the same car, the same bed
mere inches apart, yet the distance feels insurmountable..
We sit in silence, each lost in our own thoughts,
but it is so loud in my mind.
My thoughts are screaming out to you.. wishing you could hear them.
I slowly let my eyes drift in your direction.. you are miles away,
no where near where my thoughts can reach you.
I wonder where you are,
and where you wish to be.

Foolishly, I try to make you love me.
Foolishly, waiting for you to love me,
thinking time will bring you to me;
thinking if I just try this.. or that..
But sometimes we try too hard.

We sit staring into each others eyes,
but we are looking through each other.
You – looking to where you wish to be;
I –  trying to see where you are,
trying to figure out when it was that the light in your eyes dimmed,
when the flame died.
Seems it died too soon.

I miss the times you would gaze into me,
and see me.
When I saw the passion in your eyes,
when I felt your words tear into my soul,
when you spoke to me
in whispers
so only I could hear.

Wrapped up with the sky,
He said it speaks to us with words,
in the form of empty storms.
But the clouds don't shower thoughts
they only crowd the morning dew,
and the broken jukebox birds.
The chatter reminds me of my noisy efforts.
There was a time I said little-
"Don't trust the quiet ones."
They are the fools who believe in the blues and the sunsets,
sleep little and dream of promise.
Comfort brought me to speech
to explain the thunderstorms outside my windows
to shake off the dew his clouds
crowded in my chest
and the broken jukebox birds in my throat.
Yesterday he said I smelt like home.
The familiar scent of pillows and cover-
warm things in winter.
Campfire cinders.
Smoldered once in quietude-
burning with desire.
If my lips don't sound-
maybe I can hear the rumble of his clouds.
Maybe I can listen to his blues.
Watch his sunset in smoldering quietude.
Maybe he'll speak to me with words.
Or maybe he'll just rain on me
thoughtlessly.