It was early July when I kissed my father Daedalus goodbye.

She burned so extravagantly under the stars.

I soared through soggy summer air.

All the while the love in her faded.

My fall into autumn was triumphant.

I keep telling myself to not look back in anger,
but I wonder what I'd even look back to.
How much of you is left;
or has your Chicago been built over by a more Chicago?

Sometimes you can't see the stars
because the constellations are in the way
in the way that only your love
can be more you than you.

Some day that tea cup
will put itself back together
and it will all start to collapse;
hold me closely then?

Everything was black and wet,
there were bubbles,
the field was boiling.
Through the windows,
you'd just sink into it.
"Loosen up," the lake echoed,
"I'm sure as hell not going anywhere."
A flat-crested hill seemed to dance,
mountains unfolding into higher places
and looking over the lake.
The place was in sorry shape,
plain and simple.

Hands almost touching,
I'm out of my **** mind, right?
How could we do this?

Milk and honey;
one is more luscious and inviting
dripping down your pouty, cherry red lips.
The other is warm and tempting,
but for some reason,
I can't stand to stomach it.

Dim candlelight illuminates the mistakes
while the shadows envelop the rest of my thoughts.
Darkness never seems to end when it stems
deeply from within one's self.

Each passing wave breaks and reassembles
without so much of a glance or stutter.
Why can't I be so gentle,
yet fierce enough with my words,
that you'd understand how I similarly feel?