the scent of the flame
a type of beauty existing in pain
An aching for the feel of a hand in mine,
as if the whole world felt your tears like rain,
an explosion of human understanding,
existing within a single vein.

Friction of index and pointer finger
Dragging gently over lips and chin
With pupils fixated on tongue and teeth
Breath slowly exiting our soft temples
Eyelids flutter closed for quick moments
Of glimpses into grand starlit nirvana

Teeth pressed into flesh
I want my head on your chest
Fingers twirling my hair
Our particles are everywhere

Friction of hand closed over throat
Squeezing and in some time releasing
With iris's diving deep in mine glowing
Smile bursting from sinister tempting
And soon your fingers will be in my hair
Our particles spreading out everywhere

I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)

So many poems
and stories
have gone unwritten
due to fear of not being good enough

i love her like group therapy loves refreshments.
but sometimes i hate the way things unravel.
and the way we re-tangle after cutting colored strings.
is this really love if all my bones will break?

she said she feels strange sitting next to me,
as she traced the lines of my wrist tattoos and smiled.
it's hard to know where people are in all this air,
they could be nowhere, or dissolved within my skin.

i love her the way flowers bloom between my fingers.
the way i cry after the game and it's the ending screen.
i can't help pleading when i'm so used to the feeling.
is this really love if i come out covered in scars?

668

“Nature” is what we see—
The Hill—the Afternoon—
Squirrel—Eclipse—the Bumble bee—
Nay—Nature is Heaven—
Nature is what we hear—
The Bobolink—the Sea—
Thunder—the Cricket—
Nay—Nature is Harmony—
Nature is what we know—
Yet have no art to say—
So impotent Our Wisdom is
To her Simplicity.