Maybe it's the poet in me
that believes
that after all these years,
and miles,
and songs,
that you might untangle yourself from her arms,
tug on the string I tied to our fingers before you left,
and find your way back
to me.

Your heart
is pulling you across the ocean,
to ports with open arms waiting for you;
and I'm left here wondering
why it wasn't enough
that I would have tore out my rib cage
and made it into a boat
for you to sail yourself there in.

I would wait here,
at this port
that is both where you have been
and where you still are,
until I turned to stone.

It's the poet in me
that can't let you go.

.
In gravest, gravels of untouched soil,
Spearhead of purple, beyond the pale,
One statue of siege upon a windy foil,
What mires meek airs in all you survey?

Like a frost of summers, you are lord,
To hold that seed in your spiny face,
Depressions of land your promontory,
All up with arms, iron clad as a mace,

Beneath you, the grown motley fields
Are desolate, all flowers bled, blender,
Spiders and birds know you unyielding
The lost aleatory scent of no surrender.

Fair to the broken
Who through mankind have been slain
She make's them all pay

I love the way the Earth sings your name
It's like the skies are slowly falling
On piano tiles
That even the deaf can hear.
So pure, so slowly killing and reviving souls
At the same time.

I love the way you play with the wind
Like a child who learns how to play guitar
Sometimes foolishly breaking the strings
Sometimes creating music
That cuts deeply into my soul.

I love the way snow settles on your eyelashes
And how your eyes turn into a Wonderland
Where I don't shrink nor I grow
I just turn into someone
Who perfectly fits
In your world.