You're the trees dancing softly in the wind.
You're the vibrating string making sound such calming, making me want to drown.
You're the smell of new sheets after a rainy night.
You're my bookstand I'll always reach to.
You're the river of words wrote down carefully on brown paper I'll always look for escape in.
And you're just making me smile.
I love you.

down the stairs, where the creak-feet of descent
will silence a cricket in the room; there with couch
and the bookstand, oak and glass....
sedate features; the odd bust of an Inuit matriarch-
staring at your blouse like it were forged
in blasphemies and trade winds.
down there, where we keep the cat riveted to the headlights
of our armored car.

in the seam

the coffee table is strewn, right down the middle
with old magazines and straw placemats.
a stain that never fades,
stands in the garden of cigarette butts and dog-eared -
post-it notes
to a glass scarecrow.
a mound of bric-a-brac
and fingerprints.

it's sticky
where two people
made the love
that made the mess...

but it's hollow where they never met.
and you can see the carpet through the permafrost.
our lens
immune to domain.
free to see the whimsy
in a spot of bother
about a broken
heart.

down where the television skin is the thickest. our ironic muse.
just a spritz of cultured sabotage,
and the good sense to go mad
without disturbing the peace....
the same peace that almost -
cost us the war.

at the very least.

Long, long ago, my heart was penned inside a leather book. An ornate pattern was etched upon the cover, accompanied by heavenly hues. Crisp, ivory pages and ink as black as a raven's wing showed evidence of joy, pain, sorrow, and truth.

I would study the book for hours, fascinated by its complexities. I liked tracing my fingers over the fine details, my eyes danced over the calligraphy. And then I began to wonder if anyone else wanted to read my book. So I sought to find out.

I embarked on journeys and took nothing but my beautiful book. Every traveler I met was invited to read it, and I would sit quietly next to them as they leafed through the pages. I would administer the addition of their letters and lessons, hoping to personify their most admirable traits. My eyes widened in horror as they defaced its elegance. But I was confused and saddened when someone chose to rip out any pages and chapters to keep for themselves, leaving asymmetrical gashes in my most prized possession.

As a young girl, the travelers were gentle with my beautiful book. They treated it with great care and smiled at me with warm eyes. As I grew older, far more people began to treat the book with less respect. Sure, most wanted to read it, but some read only the parts that they deemed worthy. Others read with greed to exploit the deep secrets within. And others completely disregarded the book all together.

Now, the bindings are worn down and dangerously thin. The pages are feeble, threatening to tear from the softest contact. I dare not travel with it any longer, let alone even touch it for fear that it will fall apart in my own hands. It sits on a bookstand, accumulating dust.

I long to open the book once more, but I know that I must wait for the most avid Reader to be gentle with its contents. It is tenderness that will bring the most beautiful parts of the book to life. The Reader will restore its fragile state and add the knowledge and clarity that no other person could have taught. And as the new and improved project is completed, the purest form of love will stem forth.

Until then, my beautiful book will rest easy.