"You look like love,"
she said one night,
cold with the
whispers of winds
on old cobblestone
and hushed
footsteps
of snow-covered
boots.

He stopped
in his tracks,
the cherry of
his cigarette
pulsing
like the colors
of a spinning
satellite
lightyears away
from their newly-found
lives.

"What does love
look like?"
he asked,
syllables hanging
close to his face,
blue eyes
darting
from her lips
to her hands
and back again.

But he knew.
He knew from the first
time he shook her hand
and saw the
sweat glisten off her
brow,
and listened to her
listless stories
of how summer
never truly loved her,
that one day
he truly would.

She smiled,
lips cracking
from the dry air,

"It looks like an
overflowing sink,
fresh with bubbles
from soapy dishwater
left unattended
to waltz in the kitchen.

It looks like ice
cracking
to the sweet smoke
of scotch
and the divot
on the couch that
sinks our thighs
and the thought
of any afternoon plans
deep
in crevasses
we're both too sleepy
to crawl out of.

It looks like all
the things
the world
took from me
and promised
it would never give back,
but instead packaged
in a
candle
bright enough
to illuminate
all the dark places
and remind me
that even though
others have treated me
like a
flicker,
I'm truly a
flame."

Women are so beautiful

take a woman down to her skin
and you can trace the lines of her back
like tracing the curves of silken cloth
every dimple
every curve

the crease of the neck
the elegance of the shoulder blades
the rolling divot of the spinal cord
the curve of her sides
the dimples at the bottom of her spine
her hips
that dint that curves around to her inner thighs
her thighs
her knees
her ankles

the feeling of pressing your naked body up to her naked body
your hands on her hips
your palms in her dimples
your chest on her back
chin in her collar
fingers in her pelvic crease
your lips on her neck
her **** fit into your pelvis
your tongue at her jaw line
hands in between her thighs
teeth pulling at her earlobe
fingers on her ****
her *** on your fingers
your leg wrapped around hers
your hand tracing her outline
like rolling hills
soft
and smooth

she's so beautiful
and it's all so perfect

These days have defeated me
The cartographer burned the map meant to take me home
I don't know how I ended up walking in circles
The ground below has a divot where my thoughts have weighed down the soil
I've taken step after step to get where I'm going
The only step left will be the hardest one
I just need to lift my foot off of the ground
To fall

divot discoloration blemished imperfection.
The storybook of my flesh is peppered with these pockmarks of life.
A secret connect the dots maze on my body binding the story pages together.
I grin as I examine my body and all it's protruding oddities, how beautiful  it is as I crash course through this crazy ocean my breath still ebbs and flows in synchronization.
I love the nooks of me no one else could possibly understand.
my peculiarly chipped tooth buried in my gums as a reminder of juvenile fun.
I tuck myself into a bed of comfort cradling these imperfections, a grand testament of life.
The girl with the electric smile and lazy eye.

i don’t know if you were in second
or third grade. or what your favorite color was.
i’m not sure if you liked playing dress up or soccer
or if you were an only child or the baby of six.
i don’t who you had a crush on and i’m not even sure of your gender
but what i do know, is that today you were scared because you saw white
and then heard the noise of the explosion, and the screams of the injured
but i’m not sure if had learned yet in school that light travels faster than sound.
i don’t know why you were watching the marathon, but i know that you were excited
and impressed
that all these people were running for twenty-six miles, which happens
to be the distance from your house to your
grandma’s.
i don’t know if you died squeezing tightly to your mother’s hand or
if your last breath was taken alone, while hundreds ran in a flurry around you.
i do know that when you fell to the ground, no longer breathing,
you tripped a wire that pulled out
your father’s heart and sanity.
i know that you hadn’t yet felt someone
trace their lips up the divot of your spine
and i know that you will never get to sneak out of the house at
three am to get drunk in a park.
you will never see the next president or even what your best friend will wear
on his wedding day.
and i am sorry.
i am sorry that someone was sick enough to put
an explosive in the trashcan and let it detonate
i’m sorry that your death was the product of human selfishness and greed.
i am sorry that today you had to feel a warm liquid leak from your body
and that you lost so much of it you
couldn’t bear to keep your eyes open.
i’m sorry that you were eight years old when you died,
and that you barely got a taste of the world before it was snatched out from under you.

By Bob Englehart
(based on a true story)


Ben Hogan was the strongest man.
The game had ever seen,
The purest golfer in the world,
Who’d ever graced a green.

He had one dream and only one:
To play a perfect round,
Eighteen glorious holes-in-one
Before he’s in the ground.

One day a wealthy patron,
The richest man in town,
Said “Ben, I’ll tell you what I’ll do,
If you play that perfect round.

I’ll give you a million dollars,
More than fifty grand a stroke.
If you can do what no man’s done.”
Said Ben “Is this a joke?”

“Let’s do it now” the man said.
“Lets have a little fun.”
“OK”, said Ben.  “I’ll get my clubs.”
And they walked to number one.

He put his ball down on the tee,
The turf was Kentucky Blue.
He squared his body to the plane,
And swooped his follow-through.

Oh, he started on the first one,
And heaved his mighty whack!
It rolled onto the high side
And dribbled in the back.

The next one was a dogleg,
He waved the crowd away,
The gallery was silent now,
The trees began to sway.

A little breeze had risen up,
He put his club back in,
And took out something with less loft
And a little more backspin.

He hit it with a wallop!
It carved into the wind,
It chose a path below the wrath
And bounced and rolled.  It’s in.

The third one was a downhill,
With water on the left,
A line of trees behind the stream
And sand traps hard and wet.

Ol’ Ben let go a low one,
It swallowed up the air,
And blew right through an apple tree,
A peach tree and a pear.

That ball had so much on it,
Though it hardly did rise up,
It scattered rocks and leaves and dust
‘Til it rolled into the cup.

Its cover had unraveled,
Ben bent to lift it out.
He gave it to his caddy
Who gave a mighty shout.

Number four and five the same,
Perfection every shot,
Six through nine were ones apiece.
He was thirsty now and hot.

Number ten, the toughest hole
The golf course had on tap,
A double-dogleg, raised up green,
And a bunker called The Trap.

The Trap was a crater in the ground,
With a rope to climb on down,
And a flashlight on the bottom sand,
By a skull some golfer’d found.

Ol’ Ben just squinted skyward,
And lifted up his chin,
“I want to try to make this shot
Before the darkness settles in.”

He came down through that golf ball,
With a smile of purest pleasure,
And it headed for The Trap at speeds
Impossible to measure.

It dipped into the chasm,
And headed for the gloom,
It plunged down deep in the abyss
‘Til it hadn’t any room.

It hit the skull like a bullet,
Some bone was blown clean off,
Out the top of the Trap it flew
And lined up with the moss.

It rolled two hundred yards or so,
And headed for the cup,
And dropped in with a gentle plop
With its logo facing up.

Eleven, twelve and thirteen,
Were handled much the same,
You couldn’t hold a candle to him,
When Ben was on his game.

The next four holes were all alike,
The ones that came before,
All holes-in-one were on his card,
No twos were on his score.

He strolled up to the eighteenth tee,
His heart was beating loud.
He put his fingers to his lips,
And quieted the crowed.

The last one was a short one,
A straight-ahead par three
There were no hazards anywhere,
No sand trap, pond or tree.

“This should be a snap, ol’ sport”
The patron said as he looked.
He reached into his pocket,
And got out his checkbook.

Ben hit the ball without a tee,
A divot flopped in front,
The ball flew forward to the rough
Like a major-leaguers’ bunt.

It straightened out and bounded for
The cup which was dead ahead,
His target clearly right on line,
“Draino,” the patron said.

But deep inside that little hole,
In the center of the green,
A bug was singing courtship songs
That filled the round ravine.

And on the edge…above him,
His girl bug sat and giggled,
And fluttered sixteen eyelids
Her antennae bobbed and jiggled.

The ball snuck up behind her,
It didn’t see her charms,
And it knocked her off the slippery edge
Right into her boy bug’s arms.

The ball stopped when it hit her.
It wouldn’t moved an inch.
The patron’s eyes popped real wide,
Ben Hogan didn’t flinch.

Ben couldn’t know the truth of it,
He only knew he failed.
He took it all upon himself,
And stomped the ground and wailed.

Other dreams would have to wait.
He couldn’t rest until
He turned around and headed back
To the first tee on the hill.

They say his ghost’s still out there
And on moonlit nights you’ll hear
The pounding of his irons
Against the dimpled sphere.

I adventured to the woods by one of the middle schools in my small town. Krueger outdoor environmental science center. It was towards the beginning of the end of a normally lengthy winter so there was still plenty of snow to cover most of the ground.
Plenty of birds talking in their chirp language and plenty of rodents footprints from playing in the snow that covered the wooded foundation of earth. I found my way to a frozen little pond where it comes just off the creek to its own little basin of water. I slid on the solid ice and had my fun just like the free little bunnies, squirrels, and whatever land animals resides in these beautiful woods. I could tell they had their fun on the ice play land too because I could see the image of their tracks imprinted in what snow was laying on the face of the ice. There’s a decent sized dam at the start of the trail right next to the creek I was walking, what a relaxing view it was with the sound of the water rushing down it like a waterfall to the continuing side of the miles long creek. I came to a little divot in the trail where a small slanted hill dips down into the creek and it’s chilled water. I sat here on this hill to write this piece while the sun shines down directly on me keeping me warm and comfy while writing. Such a peace defining moment where you get to notice every little detail of the extraordinary nature life we’re given to observe and experience. The way pieces of tree bark, little sticks, leaves, and sediment float atop the creek water going whichever direction the drift carries them. The smell of damp dirt as I rubbed my hands in it to remember what it was like to be a kid and not care to play in the earth. More so just to be human, to be a mammal and bring myself one with the crusted surface and connect with the earth that homes my body and soul. There was a huge doe and buck playfully frolicking across the creek side I was sitting from; I only noticed them at first because they made their loud exhales of breath to communicate they were there. Either that or they were just breathing so heavy from playing and running for so long with each other aha. They must’ve knew I was friendly and wanted to give me a sight to look at and what a euphoric moment it was to enjoy the picture of them playing together. I went to get a closer look at the water and maybe dip my hands in it. I failed to notice how muddy the hill was and almost lost my footing in the sludge as I went down and barely escaped taking a swim in the freezing cold creek! While I was at the bottom of the hill I washed the mud off my hands from catching myself by palming the grime and not letting myself slip down any further. I know the birds got a kick out of watching me struggle not to take a dive into that ice cold water that I was so frantically trying to stay out of! =‘D I had to drop my phone just to stay on land and when I picked it up I noticed there was mud all over the casing of it! I wiped it off on my sweatshirt that I had already gotten mud all over the sleeve of from plunging to my elbows and hands and just kept writing. Or typing, whichever you want to call it on these cellular devices. After I sat there and soaked in the moment that nurtured my indulging senses for a while I simply got up and continued to the end of this trail. Then I back tracked through the trail and took some more time to go ice skating in my normal shoes. I followed my own footprints back onto the trail that I veered off of to find the little frozen over pond and went for a jog back to my warm cozy home and published this piece of simple writing explaining my adventurous and funny morning I had. Never forget to do this when you have free time from responsibility and the reality society in America has created for this generation. Explore your youthful intuition and let nature be one of the best friends you could ever ask for!

A ghost sits beside him
on the well-worn piano bench.
Black cherry staining holds strong
against years of wear.
His seat engraved -
a small divot carved
from countless hours of diligence.
All where he lay himself
at the mercy of the keys.

Most of the time,
porcelain and ebony fingers
clutched his heart, allowing every beat to
bleed life into the music.

For it’s not him that dictates what he plays,
but what the keys see inside him.
More often than not,
a minor chord reverberates
against the practice room.

From there it’s a dance.

Fingers
     gliding,
           traipsing
up and down the length,
piecing together a melody
that speaks volumes to him alone.

Every note holds a word,
a piece of himself.
An outlet for emotions
shoved inside a shaken bottle,
finally exploding against the refrain.

Mason’s weight creaks beneath the bench.
It’s old, could probably do with replacing,
but he will never own another bench.
Worn in the wood next to him,
a smaller divot keeps him company.

Mason’s fingers leave porcelain
to run over the groove.
A little over a foot wide,
though he remembers her being much smaller.

Memories tug at the corners of his lips as
he splays his palm against the seat.
It’s likely bigger from the squirming
she’d done whilst waiting for his attention.

God, he wishes he’d paid more attention.

But some songs would forever be played in minor keys.

Trust me when I say it
There’s no other way to play it
You’re a purentee bigot
There’s no other place to lay it
You might as well admit it.
It’s your shoe and you fit it.
I believe in the point and hit it.
You are a **** ******* bigot.
Now this won’t hurt much, did it?

It was your own tongue and you bit it;
Showed the world and all in it
That you are nearly an idiot
And a race-bating creep along with it.
So, instead of swallowing, you spit it.
You are a callow and traitorous bigot
Who would deny to others in a minute
The rights of citizenship along with it.
The Liberty Bell? You’ll pit it
With the sticks and stones. You did it
Every time you parrot a Fox News tidbit
As there are little but lies within it.
So, there is the door, why not hit it?
Because your illness? No one can mend it.
It’s a blow to your brain, and within it
The lack of anything more than a divot
Where your compassion should be if it
Had even the tiniest solid rivet.
Instead you are a peanut butter widget,
Not much more than stuff found in a privet.
And not much smarter than a piglet.

It’s odd when you realize how poetic you get whenever you talk about your favorite place. Mine seems to radiate smells of noxious fish and decomposing aquatic life; yet I find myself sitting there, basking in the sunlight and nose-offending odors, as if I myself were in a giant stir fry of the sea, the sun, and decomposition of life itself. To most, the odors would drive them away from the place where sea is held back from the land, but I find myself drawn to it. The giddiness I feel whenever I see it, just rising from the horizon as I approach, is inexplicable. As my feet touch the ever-changing, flowing particles of crushed stone, a lightness fills me. Spreading from my feet all the way up to my head, the tips of my fingers, my nose; the lightness turns to energy. Pure, unadulterated energy. As the walk I had seemed to achieve transformed into a run, the energy turns into static, and my body turns into no-see-ums, flying in the breeze and spinning. Creating a dance that moves and flows like the liquid nearby, forward and back, lapping at the granules of ancient sand and worn glass. As static-foot touches warm stone, my body fuses back together and I climb the steep hill of smoothed down, yet still rough broken-down boulders. Unshod feet touch comforting, sturdy baby-boulders, and my body automatically starts to climb to the top. The sights aren’t that great at the beginning, seeing that you are a mere four feet or so from the small, granulated stone pieces, but as I rehearse my dance with the stones, jumping and sprawling across them with ease, it gets, stunningly, much more charming. The salt-tinged liquid makes beautiful melodies as it navigates through the cracks and holes between moulded-together stone, creating creeks and, eventually, having reached its final destination; the shoreline. Walking for what seems like miles, finally ending up at the end of the moulded sculpture, I sit down and lay there. My arms and legs spread, seeping in the warmth from every possible angle, breathing in the salty breeze. My eyes see an array of puffy marshmallows, accented with hints of pink, purple, and various shades of orange and red. I take a deep breath, letting out my worries and fears in a sigh; the sea has always calmed me. The taste on my tongue is a mixture of fish, the sea itself, and the chicken fingers being cooked up by a nearby snack shack. Sitting up, I bask in the way that the stone feels against my skin; hard, firm, but warm and comforting. Slowly being worn away by the water’s constant lapping at it, begging to be let into the overflow-areas of the shore. Time and time again, I have explored the roots of the stones, jutting up from the floor of the ocean, hiding and housing its creatures within, as if the rocks themselves were their mother. This mass of broken-down mountain formed into a beautifully elegant bridge has a name that fits its magnificence; a Jeti. The jeti houses me from the water, protects me, lets me play on her. Yet the Jeti protects herself, too. Housing barnacles is only one way that Mother Jeti defends herself, making sure that passer-bys stay on their toes, as to not catch their feet on them, for painful cuts and bleeding shall ensue soon after if they do. I need not worry about the dangers of my Mother Jeti, for I have navigated her hard and scaly vessel since I was a wee child. My feet have toughened enough to not get hurt by her sharper edges, My muscles remember each divot, nook, and cranny engraved within her scaly skin. I know her weakest parts, and her strongest. I know, that if the wind blows just right, and the tide if far enough out, she sings to you; a melodious tune of lapping waves, hungry seagulls, and the swift, quick movement of wind through all of her cracks and holes. She makes a beautiful melody, a melody to lull and comfort all of her children into a blanket of safety and warmth. When it becomes my time to go, I say”Goodbye, Mother Jeti, I wish to see you soon.”, and swiftly retrace my steps backwards, turning into no-see-ums and departing, flying into the breeze, until I return yet again.

summer
never truly loved her
she thought
kicking
the last soft waves
of the season
like they were
a pile of autumn
leaves

closed her eyes
from the sunrays
imagining
the oranges and pinks
of sunset
painted by the trees
answering to the
cold whispers
of the wind

winter
they call but still, summer
never truly loved her
she thought
but as the last soft waves
crash to her feet
the little bubbles
like the first fall
of snow

she thought
of the heavy footsteps of mud
and the snow-covered boots
on the porch
the subtle smell of pine
circling around
the divot on the couch
the bubbles from
soapy dishwater
waltzing in the kitchen
it means
you're home

and though summer
might not have truly loved her
it never took away
her metaphors
to describe what
love looks like
and love looks like
dry leaves scattered like
freckles on your cheeks
on the old cobblestones
we walk on
on Sunday mornings

it's like a pair
of warm socks,
hot cocoa and marshmallows,
and Christmas carols
it's waking up right where you belong
like blossoms greeting
the first sunlight
after months of snow
and it's summer
when the agony of waiting
under the scorching sun
learns to turn into

patience
love is these seasons
giving way to
years
and patterns
we will never get tired of
summer
might not have truly loved her
but she'd hoped that one day
you truly would
and
you did.

i am captivated
by the fluidity of your text message
you claim you arent a poet
but wow
how you can use 140 characters
to put words out of my mouth
evolving silence from stunned emotions
fantasies flit and twitter
sparked by your wit
the eminent feeling of loss when they fade
out of the temporary reality of my neocortex
and my thalimus
away into the sharpening atmosphere
my discombobulated desires
each begging for my undivided attention
in this sleepy realm of imagination
i contemplate your construction
a worthy demonstration of your capacity to hold
my mind
my eyes
my body
you are great, large, spirited
and your spirit consumes and overflows
my selfish desire to swallow you whole
until you spill out of my ears like maple syrup
sweet and sticky
and then i can have you all to myself
but that isnt fair
to the world
and the good you do it
you have taught me restraint
in my inability to think of anything but you
coupled with my inability to be with you
you manage to intrude into my every thought
conversation
my very being
with magic
your resplendent mind staining my arms
the overly colourful shadow that creeps along my spine
i feel a spectrum of colour
flickering along my horizon
crawling down my thigh like a silk scarf
i am consumed
by your light
crackling and growing
sparking and fizzling
fuelled by my tinder
my eyes swivel and squint
trying to see you through the bright mass you are surrounded by
and i catch a sigh
escape my lips
falling to you
from this new plane of existence you lifted me to
and here there is a woodstove
and a mass of cotton blankets
with a divot in the middle
begging to be filled
and you are there
my hand eases my descent into your warm chest
feet lifted
head filling the gap between your shoulder and your neck
and i rest my hand on yours
you gently sweep your fingertips along the top of my thigh
and you hold my other hand
in life there are times and places
abundant
that we find ourselves falling into
relationships
feelings
people
and so rarely
do we feel like we are made to be there
but here
darling
is where i am supposed to be

Don't let me get comfortable,
I could get used to this lifestyle.
Lazy days in the desert sun,
exciting nights with ****** fun.

Toss two hundred dollars on a dinner for 5,
It doesn't mean anything to them.
Don't miss the champagne divot stomp,
with a hat on your head, the heat is tangible.

Days spent with sand between your toes,
a Marlboro lite between your lips,
death on your mind,
all the while the dunes are full of life.

Dream of a girl who comes to you clothed
and leaves you with a guilty feeling of ******.
Don't forget your brandy.

Money is no object,
having enough things to buy is the problem
having people to buy things for is the problem.
****** is a problem.

****** is a problem,
but it seems to solve all other problems,
and when money means nothing,
****** is just a chance to feel.

Or not feel,
the desert doesn't care.
It is beautiful and deadly and will leave you searching for water, and the desert nights are unlike those of the mountains.
The mountains I'm a part of.
The mountains are forgiving, they are loving and caring and will not leave you searching for water, for it is a given.

How does one lose a creature gracefully…?

Is it possible to just be okay with a quick goodbye under the hum of those awful fluorescent lights? Would it have been easier, kinder, softer, if the lights were lamps scattered about the space, yellow and murmuring? When does the gut-wrneching tightening stop? Will I ever let the sadness of it leave my chest?

Sitting in this complacent grief even months after it all is kind

I know that the grief will let me cry and I know that when I do, it doesn’t judge me for my “I wish things could go back to normal.” Because regardless of how familiar the New Ways become, it still isn’t the same. I am bookended by these two creatures that have and continue to adore the Earth I walk on. But the Old Ways stick with us for longer than we’d maybe like.

But in filling that little empty nook, the small nest where a dog named Nelson used to lie, I’ve forced myself to grow, to become changed.

My adult life started when I got Nelson, and it started again when I had to let him slip through my trembling fingers. And it continues on with this new creature named Franklin, who sits just to the left of that Nelson shaped divot.

Loving things that leave you utterly shattered is what makes us so mendable, forgetful, endlessly desperate for devotion…

The whole scene will replay in 10 years time, and I will be even more ruined then.

Here from the first time, from the day I lost my virginity, look:
I have carved out the notches in secret on this headboard.
The wood a dark brown, daintily placed  at the head of my twin bed.
The tallies face the wall, the romance is dead.

In the middle among the marks, this deeper divot,
Where the grains turn to slivers: that is the day my heart broke.
I can recount the exact moment and tell you now as I trace it over,
His name, his smile, pained me far longer then it should have.
The smaller hashes that follow, all six of them, meant nothing.
See, there is no pattern, except for the fact that they made it to bed.

Over time, as it occurred, I chiseled away not only the headboard -
But my heart.  Too many notches for my fingers and toes.
See, here, that was revenge, and here, he's now an angel.
A multitude of sin runs through it all.

See, this headboard is whittled nearly end to end;
Perfectly untouched on one side, badly beaten on the other.
Regrets have created it, tucked between the sheets.
Yet, as I make the bed I can't help but smile,
Sign after sign, there will be another.

how to write about love
when you've never experienced it before
when all you've ever known
is the heady, warm rush
from the bottom of your belly
to the crown of your head
as you hug her
the difference in heights
allowing the divot between her *******
to cradle your cheeks
you go up on your toes
to aim your lips
on the soft, rosy skin of her right cheek
looping your arms around her shoulders
her arms automatically encircling you
your lips smiling against her cheek

one day
you took aim with your lips once more
reaching for the pure, white expanse
but she, too, took aim with hers
looking for your own pale skin
and the timing couldn't have been more wrong
or right
as your lips crashed onto hers
for a single moment
time at a standstill
two different bodies
a pair of mouths making contact

she pulls back immediately
and you don't even register
your feet carrying you to safety
in the crowded cafeteria
its busyness somehow calming your anxious heart
as you spend the rest of Valentine's day alone

kisses aren't quite the same
aren't quite as relaxed
a layer of stiffness neither of us can
or want to uncover
her hugs aren’t tight
but her smile is
as she waves a half-hearted goodbye and turns
to aim her lips
on the bump of her boyfriend’s cheek

I rolled over onto my back.
I reached up and wiped the sand beaches from the water line of my eyes.
My gaze fell to rest focusing on the corner of my ceiling where three planes came to an infinitesimal point.
The stale air reluctantly circled over and over through the whirling dervish blades of my floor fan.
I tossed to the left. My shoulder embossed with the intricate design of the thin sheets.
I ran my fingertips over every sullen divot in my flesh.
They felt like the imprints of dusty fingertips you left on my soul.
And though I knew better, I blamed you entirely for those wagon wheel ruts, muddy canyons I am still striving to cross over.
I realized it would only take two planes for us to meet.
The newborn air gladly pushing up the wings.
The plane indenting itself into the sky like a seal into melted wax, like the convex curve of a line.
But some lines are never supposed to truly meet.
Like the horizon.
The sky and the sea.
Running parallel.
Running indefinitely.

I woke up in her arms
from a slumber of one thousand years.
All that survived through my hazy dreams was my name
and the vague smell of morning dew
and reinvention.
Her shoulders softly ***** down to her naked waist,
but before I can feel her all the way up
Her lashes, like black lace shutters, lift.
I take this sweet moment before she wakes
To watch the way morning-light makes gold out of her skin.
With my lips to her forehead,
I recalled the sounds and images of our *******
and the way we crash down after,
sometimes side by side, like children who’ve played to their limit,
but often one atop another, like lovers who’ve collapsed amidst the fog of their own intoxicating devotion.
Every divot or dimple in her skin is another hiding spot
for a little imaginary love note.
Her black eyes to me are like a dark room, where she takes me
when she wants me alone.
My eyes are blue like the sheet we found ourselves under
the first time I allowed myself to taste that subtle pout
and the sweet, wet innocence of her kiss.
As I watch her rise and dress,
shyly slipping cotton over her sacred curves in this white-gold morning light,
I believe I know her better than she does.
I can tell by the way she pauses to look at me and smile
that she knows me better than I ever will.

Let me worship you, my beautiful angel.
Don’t feel those heavy sounds while you’re in this with me.
Wake up brand new in my arms,
every morning that you love me.

My eyes swimming, the lamplight
bobbing as it is held in my gaze; I watch
the door swing closed with a
resounding click.

Just a moment before were your hands, floating
an arms length away from the sun-
warmed duvet, shuffling in the effort
of untangling your headphones,
methodically stowing them in the
pocket of your jeans.

The door sweeps shut, your silhouette in
the hallway lighting now stifled and
the dancing figures
of the oak leaves are
swaying together upon the carpet. The window
glowing soft and meandering over my shoulder.

With a resounding jolt of latch meeting strike
plate; I am left with the hum of passing electricity,
the grazing cadence of
my exhales,
and the lukewarm divot in the sheets where
I hold your departed presence captive.

The dead remain so
The alive not not so

Pivot divot when
Friends through end

Are still so; with or
Without tuna casserole

Why I am like this?
The taddest stiver from what I deem aptest is excavated.
My skin is pock marked and discolored like a poorly laundered sheet.
When I run my fingers across my flesh ridden vessel my fingers read the incrusted  imperfection.
Divot: you were never worthy
Scar: who could ever find you appealing?
Blemish: your existence is repugnant
I ravenously pick at my skin, hoping I'll find some scintillating suit of beauty lying just beneath my robe of acquiescent reality.
Tear: I fear intimacy because I let my imperfections blind me.
Heart: palpitating panic, I've grown accustom to the small nibbling self loathing.
I harrow my skin not only as a result of my OCD, but as a way to keep me corralled from all the potential I'm afraid to see.  
I feel much more safe sundered away from all the beautiful things I once aspired to be.
Scarring, discoloration, dead skin.
I don't have to fret rejection when I've already denied myself the right to be accepted.

i sip galaxies from the divot of your collarbone
and paint nebulas across your skin with my tongue,
filling my ravenous
blackhole
Heart
with starlight.

These walls are ringing with laughter
They are drenched in tears and soaked in pain
They sigh with the weight of a lifetime of memories
They are saturated with stories and songs
They breath the cry of a baby; the lilt of a father’s voice
These wall are stained with struggle, scratched and dented with trials and feuds.
They cling to the paint that peels away to expose the mold of mistakes made
Fractured and cracked tiles tried to reconcile and found forgiveness in the art of their flaws.
Creaking stairs groan with the desperate prayers that shattered the air in the depths of despair and brought healing.
The ceiling is reeling with the feeling of kneeling before the King as one member and crying out:
This is our house. Our home: where Satan will roam no longer and we are made stronger as we sing to the King as family.
Now here I stand, my hand memorizing the land I was raised in. Each grain, divot and angle is a sliver of my mind. I am frozen in time as I rewind through the blinds and find myself near the kitchen shelf, where food no longer lingers. My fingers scan the sink: I think of how we'd drink straight from the faucet, my mom's voice yelling “stop it!”
Dissonant notes drift from the phantom piano in my mind. A child's hands land on the ivory, making chords and strands of a melody. She turns to grin at her feat as loving parents treat her to praise for her serenade. The crackle of flames as we played board games, waves of heat to beat the winter cold and bold flecks of snow flying with our dice on the carpet. A cry upstairs leads to pairs of frightened eyes in the dark of night. Pattering feet make a hasty retreat to the safety of daddy's strong arms and mommy’s protection from harm between the blankets and pillows. A golden sunrise leads to adventures outside; trees to climb and bikes to ride, mermaids and cowboys, escaped slaves and so many toys. Rustling leaves shed buds of green; lapping waves on sandy beaches, sunshine days full of ice cream with peaches. A million laughs and a thousand hugs, cake in the bath with a bubble filled tub. Sights and sounds and smells of the past, and I'm the last to feel this memory so real. Grazed walls and scratched floors full of knicks and dents meant to tell stories and prevent us from forgetfulness. I soak in the lifetime of love that's been lived inside these four walls as I walk down the hall. I'm here at the door for the last time it seems. This whole dreadful process feels like a bad dream as the seams of my mind strain to drag out the time. But the tick of the clock resounds as the lock clicks and my life is quickly drug away to lay in the way of another child who will play in this place. And in my mind, these walls I have loved all my life have just crumbled and fallen and died.

It’s a new day and I still love you
You used to slightly grasp my chin as you were about to kiss me
I miss the way you used to look at me
Like you were asleep but fully awake all at the same time
I miss the divot in your shoulder my favorite part of you...and I miss laying beside you in my bed
I remember how you used to say how comfy my bed was, that you could just fall asleep so peacefully
I remember your laugh, I can still hear it when I close my eyes
I remember when we were innocent and made pizza in my kitchen.
The world was ours that night,
Like our own slice of happy
Like playing house for the night
I remember as we sat in the kitchen at 9 or 11 we just stared into each others eyes....getting lost without even moving
I remember you telling me your dreams....some of them....even though you like to say i never knew you
I think I understood you
But I think your dreams were light
I think that you’ll achieve whatever you set your mind too
I think that’s the beauty of falling in love with you
You gave me something to believe in, even if it was just you. You made me see it in me too.

— it’s a new day and I still love you


(v.m)

Rivers aren’t meant to be confined
They’re meant to flow, undefied

Rivers aren’t meant to be roped and chained
To one path, one divot, only meant to catch rain

Rivers aren’t meant to be encased in stone
Until their city is gone and they’re left alone

Rivers shouldn't be defiled by people’s ugly vices
They’re meant to be innocent, not unimportant sacrifices

Rivers are meant to flow freely, uninterrupted,
But we seem to be determined to make all of them corrupted

I talk to god about you all the time I always ask him why you got taken away from me
I ask him why you don’t want me
I asked him what’s so great about breaking my heart
But there was no answer
Because just like all the time now
All I was able to hear was the echo of your laughter
And I know your not even dead
But everyday I spend without you
Sure feels like you are
Like I’ll be standing at your casket
With a parade of tears
Or maybe it’ll be vice versa
But either way you being gone
Has changed my life
For the worst
Because now all I wanna do is spend every minute asleep in your arms
Poking the divot in your shoulder and kissing that tickle spot on your neck
No matter what I’m doing I can never get you off my mind
I hope your okay
Even if whenever I see your name on my phone I feel like I’m being stabbed in the heart
And I’ll always wish you well
But I’ll also always wish you wanted me
Like I want you
Cause loving you really did take the breath out of me
Loving you really took my breath away

(v.m)