I lock my eyes to their counterparts-
the alter-ego of my ego.
I stare into the mirror
not to remark on my beauty,
or the flaws that can seem etched
into the glass,
but because I can't trust any other window,
to look into my soul as deeply.
And when I look at this mere reflection,
there is a love so superficially profound,
that can only be understood
when pupils match up perfectly.

What does it mean to relax?
I think I've forgotten true comfort.
Fear is a constant hangnail,
and the summer heat makes my nerves kick in.
My teeth peel skin as I worry and my clothes dampen.
Drawing my own blood, it's a stupid self-induced sin.
Voices whisper in my ears.
"Watch your gaze, or they'll think you're up to something.
They'll assume the worst.
They won't see your chewed up fingers
and they'll only see the thirst.
Your lips parched from heavy breathing."
Who spoke first?
Was it me licking my lips-
causing questions within them?
Or am I the one asking?
Wondering like this when I should be relaxing?
"Close your eyes to heighten the panic,
seems like it's euphoric,
But you're really just frantic.
Open them but don't look at a soul."
I have eyes that penetrate
as deep as their goals.
They speak more than my clothes,
they speak more than my curves.
If I stare at them longer,
and release my nerves,
Misunderstood.
Misunderstood.
I'll relax when reality
And their thoughts become good.

Ah, now I remember.
It was in those rare moments when you say something different.
Words weave in and out of your lips
but your eyes have the freshly stitched smile
like that of a child
listening to their favorite bed-time story.
Satin slips from your mouth,
wrapping around the beating murmurs
below my necklace
triangle yantra of Kali,
under a lacy leopard bra,
beneath the tattooed deviant octopus,
and soothes the palpitations
to a comfortable pause.
We don't always need air to **breathe.

There's static in the way my breath falls when you look away.
Your fingers leave mine like an unclear whisper,
but the question remains.
What did you say?
Am I alone? Or will you stay?
Hearing noise and distant chatter-
foreign and unimportant.
All I long for is your story telling.
An uninterrupted electricity.
The sound of your voice,
Pulls on the hairs of my skin.
Don't stop talking to me
But please use some dryer sheets.

"If I was a bird, I'd be an owl."
If I was a bird, I'd be a-
"Don't say pigeon! I hate pigeons."
Pigeons? What is so horrid about them?
I thought and feared for my potential existence.
What if I was a pigeon?
What if my feathers were grey?
What if my belly was fat with breadcrumbs
and street scrap?
What if low coos did escape my throat
in efforts to keep warm and draw love?
What if children did push me to fly away?
What if I did choose to sit on trees,
and **** on statues of prominent people.
If I was a bird I'd be a warbler- no, a worrier.
One that plucks its feathers,
be it grey or rainbow-colored.
One that grows weak when flying in the cold,
but makes it south, all in all.
One that doesn't have a beautiful singing voice,
but chirps aways all in its lonesome.
If I was a bird, I'd peck at windows,
only to fly away
when someone comes to open it.
Because I know when I'm not welcome.

He hides his politics on the inside of his jacket,
wears two scarves and has a light British or Scandinavian accent.
I mean- he says poo-berty, for god's sake,
but the man is brilliant.
I never knew a person who can take
what an idiot exclaims in such fervor and falsity,
and let it become something of knowledge.
The concept of understanding
sits in the back of my tongue,
deep in my throat, and it rattles until he calls it out.
He knows what I'm saying when I don't.
And he knows I've got this solution
but I can't put it to words
that do it justice.
So he and that Greg kid- the philosophy major,
and the only other man I really know who speaks of feminism
more accurately than any woman I've ever come to listen to,
extrapolates my shaky speech
into substance.
And I've likened this learning into something like love
-a Platonic but true love,
of all those who know so much more than I,
and are willing to still take me seriously.
It's rare to see with these eyes,
true teachers, true seekers
truth-seekers
truth teachers
and they who learn infinitely,
inspiring me to be poo-pil.

I think I am
falling in love
with myself
again.

You cocked your head to the side,
smiling at the sight before you.
This meant you were happy.
Or amused.
Or in love.
Or all of the above.
You hold the world with a laugh.
What could he not grasp?
What he lacked was tact.
The commitment component.
He let you go for a moment
of what he believed was relief.
He was running from himself.
You were running from your grief.
A dead doll replaced you.
Shake your head in disbelief.
A dead doll couldn't face you.
She could not speak.
She should not speak.
If she wishes to keep her voice.
You'll strip her of her dreams.
You'll strip her of her choice.
Just like she did you.
The decision was made.
He'll fall away.
He'll fall away.
You'll run too far.
The moment was too long.
What he did was too wrong.
There's no flying back.
The cloud has now gone.
You're to smile to the masses,
and pretend you are strong.
Kiss your new grasses,
sing a new song.

I stepped in through his ears, covered in hot mud
and rolled off his tongue clean as a whistle.
I was no longer a whisper, he uttered in a painted mirror.
Scratching out two eyes that saw nothing but themselves.
He came to wonder
if there are ants in my stomach feeding an army
off the peaches I couldn’t eat for six summers.
Three winters with no springs yet, the snow up to my neck.
My eyes spilt pearls like a Japanese ghost, onto the white cold
he buried me in.
and when that melts into the lush green we’ve yet to writhe on,
I hope there are limbs left to entwine us,
I hope there are streams made to wash us.
My body unchilled is sight for him to absorb,
and record and plan a trip.
Diction may be a skill he knows
that I have learned to be versed in,
but no matter the assemblage of my alibis,
he finds me guilty, so I choose to make quiet familiar,
and comfortable and the stringy nerve endings I've grafted
into his skin and his kiss when I love him,
are threatened to be severed with scalding water,
poured from the darkest kettle called
doubt.

The spaces between their thighs
signified
the act of vomiting and starvation,
or just really good metabolism
a small appetite
genes
but
considering that their instagram
has no photos of food
but filled with selfies
of their thin legs donning patterns
maybe they have that problem.
But they are beautiful-
I suppose.
I draw them without clothes.
Confidence in a pose.
and I, with my curves,
wouldn't mind to appear like them,
sans *****.
So I eat
and I work.
And I stare in the mirror,
and see the tiniest space
right below my womanhood,
and muscles
closing in
I guess it's healthy,
just not thin.

i'm sorry for being this
inconsequential
interruption
in your life.

Just a minute left before I should pinball out of my building doors
and speed over past the new high riser,
gust of wind pushing against my little body,
tiny amongst these buildings going up.
My eyes switch between the time and the streets,
My feet fall soft and I’m safe.
The trains not here yet and then it is,
and then I sit and I rip my book out of
my lunch bag, ticket tucked under my bookmark
In case the conductor don’t see me
I’ve been reading about the golden state killer.
Rye’s a five minute warning and then
I’m speeding out of another door down
the stairs past the elderly,
across one of the many ****** Port Chester
streets difficult to cross but I’m walking
my legs dart fast past the head shop and the bread shop
and my nose is filled with sweet and sour.
I walk faster- avoiding the CEO
he rides the same train and I don’t want to talk.
So I march forward and don’t look back.
I get closer and mentally flip off the line of five short men
catcalling me in Spanish, all the while peeking in to the brisa marina window
to see if there’s anything my herbivorous mouth could swallow,
but i don’t break my stride.
They’re practically a butcher anyway.
I climb the stairs to the entrance, stepping beyond the dead baby bird carcass
I was hoping some other animal would consume yesterday
and the avocado shell that would have been good to bury it with.
I try to shake the thought of impending doom as I swipe myself in
Still going as fast as i can so that I don’t have to hold the door open for the CEO
Call me petty, but I do enough of his bidding on a day to day
And I ascend to age 5 years for 10 hours.
And then I run home just to do it all over again the next morning.

Our love
is more bittersweet than
a most overcast sunrise.

I forgot ****** healing.
I'm too scared to feel anything when you're done.
It's not like you stroke my hair,
kiss my skin and treasure me.
I'm looking for my spectacles,
emptying out your receptacle.
But there's value in the hand that flushes
down your forgotten ****.

Sweet girl.
You toss and you turn.
And cry salty facials.
Damp pillows stay cold.
Sleepless girl.
You hug lamb and bear.
Your own bed is foreign
in lonely language.
Sad sack girl.
You hold yourself close.
Pray for a dream this time
free of alarms.

Jasmine smells of Lavender to me,
except the plant of color reminds me of a time that was lonelier.
I've held a bit of the scent,
but was compelled to be rid of the dried herb that lingers,
and tickles my legs in my own bed as a reminder
to dust myself off and try again.
I sniff the freshly fallen blossoms I've laid atop
my comforters, fondly.
I try to erase the fear of the spirals,
smelling flowers and escaping sleep
and remember that I've become the company I keep.
So that when I anoint my temples with white petals
I forget the loneliness lavender reminds me of.

A little light leaks through
well-kept shades,
illuminating glitters and ghosts
of smoke from the incense.
The scent is strong,
good sticks from the temple
and it fills any missing spaces
in this cluttered room.
Saraswati's sitar is playing lullabies
that wake my conscience.
My eyes are closed
but I can see the color of your kiss.
And the island I forget to escape to
is floating in the distance,
waiting for us.

I remember when my feelings for you were diluted with the desire to be drunk and careless.
Part of me wishes to return to a summer night where it didn't matter whether you responded back to my beckoning,
because I'd never be as lonely as that makes me feel now.

There is never any urgency
until we notice the clock.

My eyes might scan bookshelves,
but I search for Blankets.
I wont say a word,
because it's already quite warm in here.
My friends are yelling at each other,
about bad politics,
while there's testosterone on the blue screen.
I sit on the floor and flick comrades
off my lap.
Little dark bug- I was quick to slap.
It's clamorous, a broken plate,
a blame game,
then silence.
Everyone else is on a smoke break.
I sit on the sofa while we wait.
I keep looking at Blankets.
The warmth and comfort of Blankets.
You know you fix heartbreak-
by filling it up with empty cotton?
so the blood soaks up,
and the space is cramped,
so those mushy feelings have no place to stay?
I cover myself in the forms of Blankets.
I am just one soppy broken heart,
surrounded by the same on Super Bowl Day.

I don't react anymore-
I rather quell the hurt with silence
and somber smiles.
I just explain enough to move on.
What's the point in fighting
or hoping or longing
when it's met with more
questions and doubting
regardless of how true a feeling can be?
It does feel good to respond with open arms,
love and no alarms.
Even though every time I let my mind go,
there is a 100 ft sprint,
lodged behind my ankles.
I guess knowing that I'll probably
lose my breath at 50,
keeps me standing still for now.
I rather be remembered for
being strong-
than never sticking around too long.

I bit down on my back teeth,
and let the air release from my nose.
I want to scream,
I want to break things,
but I can write fury instead.
There is a typhoon in my chest,
that is ejected from my pen.
My paper rips from the pressure.
I imagine it be like skin,
and how this ink bleeds
boiling hatred
is what I thirst for when
the adrenaline kicks in.
Because when all is said and done,
and bloodshot eyes glance downward.
The reality washes over me-
I have made
in madness.

Gave a call.
Rang twice.
Mailbox full.
Gave another.
Rang five times.
Lady's voice.
Unavailable.
Shower time.
Maybe after?
Brooding.
Longing.
Wet.
Wrapped in towel.
Look at phone.
No missed calls.
Typical.
No surprise.
Forget the phone.
Forget the caller.
Return to life.

"It's not for anxiety," they said, tightlipped but concerned,
they don't understand that I can't pay attention if my heart beats louder than my words,
The sound of my thoughts coming at me like trains and bike and buses,
honking at me to say something articulate,
is much louder than their confused voices explaining that the blue pill is to stop the jitters,
but I've got other issues.
They don't see that there is a tea kettle bubbling in my stomach that shoots hunger through its long nose,
in shrill whistles that pierce my insides.
It's all I can hear when the TV is on and I haven't eaten.
But that little chemical spreads inside me like a blanket of silence, quells the screaming children
and the little girl constantly tugging at my heartstrings,
making indiscernible chords that only
echo as the sound of jealousy, fear and self loathing.
She tucks her self in and keeps her hands to herself for a few hours.
As the blue devils shovel more coal in the bed warmers,
the sound of metal clanging is muted by their powers.
Chipping away at the noise makers, the inhabitants of my tortured soul-
I love the empty I feel on adderall.

I was going to sit here on this sun drenched bench,
and write about how upset I am,
but the ample lighting licking my wounds,
the whistling winds kissing my cheeks,
and the colorful campus folk walking around with unspoken stories,
made me forget all about it.

got some armor today,
after drinking mermaid's milk.
tastes like the sea
if it were on fire.
lips covered in soot
from kissing dragons,
those myths in disguises.
he said anti-depressants
take the edge off.
so i dropped my sword,
and clutched my shield.
waiting for pegasus
but he's stuck somewhere
as the stars in the heavens.
and that's alright.
it'll be alright.
my scales will protect me
keep my insides from emptying
into the toilet.
keep the pills in.
keep the feelings out.
deflecting the magic.

I just woke from experiencing what it felt to be free
of a doctrine, of this overlying immense pressure to be righteous and respectful,
that which I've inherited from my own expectations and from those of whom I admire.
I had been touched by something even bigger than my own self perseverance-
than my connections between "the wise,"
than my science that I hold so dear.
It's almost indescribable- so bear with me
as I dig through my consciousness for a dream that could just be a great answer to our confusions.
I felt myself sifting through a softened solid
that was smooth and sunset-hued.
It stretched around me but went through me all the same.
It was warm but refreshing.
It cleared away the dichotomies, the questions, the labels into a vast spaciousness that couldn't ever make me feel loneliness because in this clear space,
there was you.
In a raw form- without explanations, without excuses, without fear,
without the taste of another on your lips,
without the pressure to exist.
Just you, and your experience floating around and through you,
in the most beautiful colors I've ever seen you don.
It was just you, and it was just me,
in soft solids of insight.
When I stepped forward, I saw your life around you,
not my interpretation riddled with negative and positive energies,
but the sights and sounds that created an indefinite understanding.
With the sunsets swimming around them.
As I got closer I began to notice my own life,
spirits of the past grazing my skin gently
and gingerly.
And when we finally were face to face,
in what might be nano-seconds
our eyes were not expectations but one,
our lips were not provocations but one,
our bodies were not vehicles but one.
And it felt comfortably fluid as we walked together in something I can only liken to acceptance.
It was fleeting, however.
I was pulled out of this by the hands of 3 AM on a Tuesday, my disappearing fever,
and desire to relieve myself from all of the water I consumed before bedtime.
The lingering feeling of insight and acceptance urged me to write,
and expel the overwhelming emotion of wishing I never woke up.
I couldn't stop sobbing
and I hadn't a clue why.
I guess it was because in this dream
I came to know
the world is crumbling around us
and all we can see are the demands and the means to be something other than oneness.
We choose be chained by these requirements,
because living in this world is not the safety of the amniotic sac that we leave behind in the past.
We should know that we could relive that every time we create something we strongly believe doesn't have to last.
I'm not sure who I've lost,
or what I've found-
but I can hope
it's knowing that we may not ever precisely touch what love is despite how much we try to render it through words
and actions,
a definitive language that gives us its tangibility.
But it can touch us.
It can touch us into being one again,
if we put our lives on pause,
It can touch us if we let it.

"*******'s my favorite...
when I picture my favorite babe
she gotta look good in that way."
"He wants anorexia."
"That space between the thighs!"
"Sometimes you gotta punch a ***** in the stomach."
"My **** doesn't bend back- it's just straight."
"Pulling their hair, I bet they like that."
"This guys got his ***** tangled!"*
"Oh god, I can't talk about this anymore."

It's getting to be boring.
I'm sure you're aware.
So it'll be no surprise,
when I'm out of your hair.
I've got big ideas,
a few sweet plans.
You don't need to be there,
with your indifference.
I won't drag you along,
or force you to bite.
Either walk beside me,
or return to the night.
You groan and you sigh.
I think of everything else.
You lie through your teeth,
about what you've felt.
And I'll believe you
because of the way you smell
like I need you,
can't get over your spell.
Your white mask is plastic,
you're still just a pup,
fooling everyone with
thinking your time is up.
You pull at your hair,
dig into your face.
You just need some sleep,
and to stay in one place.
Stop sniffing at me,
and licking my wounds,
I'm sick of the sting,
I'm leaving soon.

Telling you "I'm fine, mom."
is always easier in English.

Paused a netflix movie just to write this,
my eyes are heavy in both sleep and solemnity,
I miss you.
It might seem like I rather do other things,
but that's because I'm scared about when we're alone.
I don't want to disrupt whatever high you've got going.
So I'll write to you-
maybe you'll see this, maybe you'll never look back.
And that is all just okay.
I remember there was a time I just loved you-
fearlessly.
It didn't matter that you didn't trust me
because I was certain one day, all of that will come.
That as long as I loved you unconditionally-
I could show you.
I had so much passion- so much drive,
I was thriving in those moments.
I believed in something that might not ever work
for the sake of belief
I was so deep in love.
It was dream-like.
Somewhere along the line this proof of promise-
converted into fear of loss,
and for some reason, I never was able to make you see.
I don't know maybe you've lost the details in your dark shades.
And while I am dying for that moment you let down
your 200 ft wall,
I'm now aware it might not come.
I'm okay with this.
Because my love for you
is not about what you give to me.
It's about how much I enjoy reminding you
how incredible you really are.
You always seems to forget that- and I don't mind being the one
to show it every single day.
I've been at the end of such a love-
and it's hard to reciprocate unless you really feel it.
So I get it.
It's cool.
I'll just keep loving you.
Because with every day I try to show you-
I show myself how much love I can have,
and despite what you might think,
I'm spectacular.
And I'd love me if I loved me as I much as I loved you.
Admitting this is the first step, I believe,
to letting go
acceptance
that maybe I'm not meant to be loved by you.
But I'll be passionate, still.
I'll be thriving, still.
And I'm still so very deep in love.

We were at a gay bar for the first time.
I was reminded of friendship,
while she looked for love.
I have a purse full of memories,
and she looked at her empty hands
in disappointment.
I pointed to show her
in them we made her story.
By pushing the door that spoke to her,
that she once ignored
in a fear she couldn't accept.
I thought of you and smiled in comfort.
The women here are so respectful.
And fun loving.
Singing 90s songs.
That is where her love may be.
And mine is home with you.
Because I've been thinking 'bout you
ooh na na na
I've been thinking 'bout you
I shared her cigarette,
and met a woman with a husband outside.
She is a frequent there-
I can't sing for ****.
But I heard some melodic voices.
I don't know many good karaoke singers.
I'd like to hear you up there.
Do they have Morrissey?
Lady called my name.
Center stage.
I'll think about you ooh na na na
and sing away.

counting goodbye kisses-
there were only five or six instances when they didn't happen
when you fell asleep during the ride (at least I kissed you on the cheek)
when you wanted to give me a hug instead-
that day you dropped me off at a party.
when you told me to get out of your car-
we were actually official then haha
and when I "stormed off," frustrated- that probably happened three times,
counting the dollars spent-
for someone who's a broke college student,
I didn't let that stop me from showering you with thoughtfulness
because money will never be able to buy a gaze from you
counting the reminders I've given you-
that we are something, special
I think this one might be the two hundredth one
counting your equivalents
I have them all saved in a folder,
and I dont ever go a day without looking at them.
counting all the times I've cried the last few months,
there were at least 133, and only one was over a movie.
counting all the times you hurt me
I stopped at 18 before I told you
I loved you-
not worth counting those
because that just made it 134-
and pain in the form of endless sheep.
so I decide to sleep instead- and forget-
and never count again.

Compared you to a child,
but children are less dishonest.

Labotomize these thumbs,
they scroll more than they strum.
I don't mean to be dumb,
but I can't respond back so I hum,
and you won't hear me.
No, you can't see the words that I write.
I'm sure you'd only
be tickled,
If you knew that I think of you all night.
Because I can't sleep, love.
And I can only touch me right,
Yeah, that's right.
Just me, love.
Hope I can keep up with this fight.
And I know you don't really care,
and you haven't got some spare
feelings left to share
and if there are, they're barely there.
So drop the pity,
I'm mad you got to hear me whine.
How unsexy.
I'm supposed to just be doing fine.
I'll compartmentalize,
put it in a box and tie it with twine.
while you're liking every post of mine.
I'll compartmentalize.
While I reread your every line.

I am your favorite red lipstick
that got away,
the expensive one your mother gave you
because she had an extra.
I used to grip the sheen of your swears,
while you pressed me against
dinner napkins before meals.
I know the words you'd like to say,
the curses you'd breathe.
I taste your grief.
You want me to return,
you won't come to terms
with the thought that I might think
I just look a little better on her
pallid pallid skin.
You've inhaled spores today,
it's your day off and you're trying
to forget you ever lost me.
Writhing with our friends.
You're afraid of blood.
But you love the sauce.
Your skin is crimson,
flushed from the heat.
What a shock
to know,
it was you
that came on
a little too strong.

I never thought I could ever feel so nervous,
and so proud looking in the mirror.
Sister, in some ways our resemblance is uncanny
and that never makes me feel terrible.
Even if we both cling to our bottles of perfume,
nailpolish, and beer
to remedy our despairs,
I'm proud of you.
I love how you don't ever leave your effervescence at home.
It's contagious, and everyone eventually wants a sip.
You found your beauty quite recently-
but I want you to know its always been there,
it began when your eyes first became
those thick lashed squints
from smiling too hard.
You admire things, and they admire you back.
I hope you won't forget that
when you chase what seems to be difficult.
Sister, I know there are days where you
don't see what greatness you deserve,
when you believe you have to be sorry for
your *****.
I know it because I've seen you, and I know it
because I do the same.
You always remind me to never apologize.
And now I do you.
Sister, don't let that crown fall over those
smiling eyes.
You are stronger than the chance you might be sad.
You are finer than the fool who won't call back.
You are better than the boy who should be a man.
You carry troubled teenage girls over your shoulders
every single day.
You save them, as much as you can and give them that warmth.
Don't forget to warm yourself.
Because the heat travels, sister.
I feel it too.

Anticipating discomfort
as high heels climb stairs
with light steps to avoid clicks.
Attempt to dodge the cigarette brigade
with quick nods and hellos.
Finally on their floor with labored breathing.
They are so loud- heard down the hall.
Behind the door there are friends
waiting for the next best topic.
Greeting friends,
drunk and drinking more.
Open the door to
loud friends,
laughing over each others voices.
The only thing worse than the clamor
is the spilt stout that nobody noticed.
But hugs and wise cracks are still in order.
Holding hands with a cup of speaking serum,
with eyes that already seek a clock.
It's too early, we've only just got here.
Obligation to talk.
Spy the lascivious in peripherals-
in the corners of the room.
What languid lovers narcotics make.
High stakes with low gains,
leaves mouths with ****** tastes.
Words exchanged in witty waste.
Spy the conversations that selective hearing
couldn't rid
about you- about him, about them
and the trouble we're in.
Avoid eye-contact, but answer to
"What's going on with you? New job?"
with a smile and a nod and an "It's cool."
Burning desire for an air
without so many ****** breaths.
Someone is hurling in the bathroom-
and friends are singing desperation.
Tap toes and fidget,
avoid more conversation.
Everyone is so involved, now.
Gravitating around the life
of the party.
The foyer's empty.
A platinum opportunity.
Fake a bathroom break.
Apartments don't have back-doors,
and comings a regret.
Slip past the lazy leg bridges.
No one's looking yet.
In between coffee tables and couches.
No one's looking, yet.
but some are rising for the night trips
of cancer indulgence.
Jet for the door and ever so
silently
close it when you're beyond
for relief.
The air is already colder-
slip off the heels and run barefoot
in to the rest of the night,
safe and alone with yourself
and your secrets.
Ignore the question texts.
Houdini?
Disappearing acts.
No, you're Candy.
you don't let them in your heart.
Ignore the question texts,
don't explain yourself next time either.

Can't teach a forgiven sinner,
how to repent for their mistakes.
Grace them with my presence
and they'll return to their snakes.
They'll say they're sorry,
and then stay the same.
I'll let them in,
and they'll slander my name.
I am not a god, I hold a standard.
Match it and be equal,
fall short and be abandoned.

I miss the days
when the only way my heart
was broken,
was upon achieving an ending
to an RPG
I decided to leisurely beat
in a year.
That empty feeling afterwards,
used to be the only hole
that I dug myself
until I left the protection
of my bedroom,
and realized we are all games
Life loved to beat
over and over again.

Who ever thought brooks should babble,
should really sit down in a public space for bit.
Because the sounds of cool water
slipping past patchy grass, pebbles and soil,
is not remotely comparable
to the grating voices of middle-aged women
discussing fitness gear, dinner parties and wedding plans.
I've become taken with silence.
I finally understand why it is coveted and cherished.
Silence is when life tries to speak to you.
This is something I didn't entirely grasp when I was younger
and noise was the only validation of living I had.
But the thing about silence that is much like noise,
is that you can only tolerate so much.
And then it's no longer a validation- but an uncomfortable pause
that won't stop
until you respond
to life.

"Don't try too hard."
Beloved mantra for today's people
who are so scared to be disrobed.
What ugliness are they hiding?
When there is a chance of failure,
to try is to be naked.
I forget this memo occasionally.
I'm the one who makes passionate love
to my attempts, embracing ******,
and this, sometimes, I come to regret.
But there are times when
my results are beautiful,
and worth every inch of shame ridden.

You and I are always together
in sweat and showers,
delicious dinners,
in choice, in trials, in travels
and at bedtime.
I watch you sleep and wonder
if we are together in dream.
Because I can never get tired of you.

Mathematical sound,
uplifting souls,
surreptitiously
ingrained into our
c**reated beings.