Her thoughts and I,
we stay awake
waiting for someone,
hoping for somethings
for the heart in pain
needs no tending
just a pinch of the divine
and that silver lining.

I think of the moments
we gently stole
from the curious eyes
of tired souls
our driving the distance
to escape our own
and finding the universe
in our palms, unfold.

There in the coffee shop
she stares at me
from the helpless tea bag
in scalding water.
In the bottle she would get
to quench her thirst
I find her asking if
my need's greater than hers.

The empty seat of car,
in front
is taken in her absence
by her memories warm
The gear shaft
without our fingers twined
is stripped bare
of our naked thoughts

The rains when they come,
they flood my heart
for a stormy noon
is still parked within
when the highway was lost
behind a sheet of rain
and in lights all turned on,
our tongues were mating.

Her breath is all over
this gluttony of a glass
half filled with wine,
half consumed by need
Now, the dam opens,
blood rising to the lips
flooding me with her thoughts
she can never read...

Neurons travel and wind
around your head like
draping tree branches, Christmas lights,
strings of tangled red yarn
weaving a possible
fate.

When the cords are
simply content with
remaining relatively still,
being with you
is like
sailing on smooth,
tranquil, clear blue waters
of a vast, magnificent
ocean,
a blossomed sunset
in the distance
dripping on white, sandy shores
of an island of lost paradise
awaiting our arrival.

But when the cords
flail and twist, tying each other
into knots and cutting off
the clearness
and levelheadedness of thought,
being with you
is like
trying to hang on to
the back of a typhoon,
frigid black waters flailing,
crashing against
foamy, thick quicksand,
roars and curses of a
tyrant sea god
raging seas of water against
the skies,
rapidly expelling
hurtful, sharp anchors and lunging
them to the bottom
of our sandy beds.

And I wonder
what it would be like had I
possessed more
powerful features
as your sea goddess,
as the moon and stars
from above,
and the sandy beds
below that would
catch both
hurtful anchors and
salty tears
you let loose.

Sometimes I get this sensation
as I take my bare feet
and place them
into tight enclosed shoes
to walk a cold grey
concrete path
still rigid to the shards of
   broken dreams
and promises
scattered along the middle,
the sounds of other people's footsteps
drown out my insecurities
and the
insignificance of
a person who feels small
as I try to grasp at merging
into the person full of
light and meaning
who has a spark in her eye,
     destined to do and make great changes
instead of falling into her own world
of isolation and despair
glancing around myself, wondering whether or not
I actually belong
I don't see my name on the board
with my peers
standing in the crowd,
waiting for the crosslight
to let me walk
walk with them to the other side, but
somewhere along the way
do I get lost
or am I just destined to walk
the wrong path
just so I could be with my peers
who are, of course,
the future
who will change the world
who will introduce a revelation that will change
the biased courses of humanity

but as for me

the deafening screams and words of
other people's
lives, moments, recollections
and livelihoods
cover up my hushed pathetic cries
and calls for help
as I question all that is taking place
in every which way I look
somewhere out there
a mom and her growing daughter
become closer
as my own mom falls apart on me
unknowingly ripping apart my right to establish
an identity of my own
somewhere out there
a dad can tell his children
about his life experiences
of the virtues and humility within that led to
their blessed ways of life now
as my own dad
who deserves, at least
everything the world has to give
works harder and harder every day
and every second
to continue our "blessed" ways of life now

but despite all of that

I am told No-- just focus on yourself
make sure you don't miss the crosswalk
make sure you make us proud--
but they don't see
they are what matters
when it comes to
a kid hoping to grow into a better person

there are colors;

some old and chipped
and falling apart,
on the frames of people's
subconscious
while fresh new colors shimmer
in the evening
starlight atop blue waters
just waiting to be discovered, like a
blind person experiencing sight for the first time

but how can I see the night stars
and fall in love with
the moon's beauty
when I'm too busy staring
at the sun
trying to make my way
up to the very top
running, taking jagged steps,
bent over all broken and
crawling

just hoping to be remembered

as a great sign of the times.

Straight out of a book, her life crafts pages
The lover who waits until the leaves fall off the trees
and all the people go home, leaving the streets as empty
as the box buried under her porch with all the places
she's never been
Why does the sky spell your name once the candle's burnt out
and lust becomes a taunting game?
The shallow part of the soul has a hole in it
and every time I try to mend it, it gets bigger
Bigger like the stories of love that fill her head
A romance that dances with the stars but will leave you
as fast as the wind will blow that plastic bag into the sky
When you touch fire, the burn never disappears
She will though
Off to the next novel with different storylines but similar endings
Off to the next heart she can dive into and tell a story about the girl
who was looking for something deeper
Something that's worth keeping you awake at night
Something, at one point, I thought we had
My chapter was different though, I believe
My burn never healed
and the years dripped away until our worlds were striped of paint
and all of life was brushed up and tossed into that box under her porch, with just enough space to add something more
I hear a whisper in the wind telling me the depths of life is
consumed by a portrait that doesn't exist yet
and time is only relevant to those who aren't searching deeper
I hear you
and feel your heart
pounding under the silence left in me from the night I realized you
weren't coming home
and my love was kept in a glass heart that she now uses to keep her books straight
Though every once in awhile, you hold it and think of the boy
who's heart was just enough to last until the end
To last until you closed the book and start writing again

If I were bold and young,
As a sailor's son,
For sure I'd sail away;
To the land where my fathers lived,
And I wouldn't give
A thought for me today.

For there in my quiet ville,
At the foot of a broad hill,
Reaching up so high;
I'd go tripping with my love,
Like the fond May dove,
Round the fog of the morning sky.

A fair-haired lass
My love would be,
Come from afar
To dance with me;
And like the dust,
We'd shelter in the caves;
And like the dust,
We'd blow away.