Suncatcher.
Looking straight past your actions, I find your intentions. I read them in dark pupils like Webster’s definitions. Despite glass eyes staring as you let me go, your iron curtain countenance was a stained glass window. I see your thoughts cross your mind like I might see tired old man crossing his living room, just before he draws the curtains in the evening. I watched through painted panes as you held yourself still, watched through unblinking windows as you fought your own will. And so I walked to my car, in the dark, alone, breathing clouds of grey vapor in the direction of home. And you stood across the street in the amber street lights that attract the moths whose wing beats my heart finds rhythm with as it flutters from rib to lung to throat, never holding still for fear of permanence. You thought you’d gotten your heart off your sleeves but it will always be a sun catcher, hanging from fishing line, casting cold colored shadows on the actions of a nervous mind, once thought invisible, the windows you hide behind let in just enough light for me see what I knew I’d find.
Honey, I can read your smoke signals.

the river runs through,

pristine waters crossing jagged rocks,

ethereal tidal hands passing on their grace.

the only constant sound in the seclusion offered by pines and spruces,

miles far from crucifying gazes and demeaning canards, not shushed.



well actually it isn’t so far from your place,

but it is from mine and eyes closed, it’s a world away,

with our shadows next to the other’s,

feet swinging in and out of the currents,

rosebud lips and green eyes trained on brown ones, no longer discreet,

soft blur filtered-images.



i was hailed from the flighty and the brisk.

and early on i taught myself not to rely on

anything or trust anyone-

people would offer you poison disguised as milk

and venom-dripping back pats.

but gladly i oblige to drop this excuse for a heart in your graze,

still baring splinters from the plaster walls used to hide my being from the world;

on close fists you can take away my reservations.

promises have always been incredulous for me,

lest I put my trust on dandelion wishes and passing blue cars for you.



the sun goes down and tinting skin in twilight blue.

we’ve stayed for quite long basked in the brook’s mystique.

for a while longer, we stay,

gemstones braided in your hair; a corset paired with my whimsical skirt,

siren-eyed smirks and otherwise illicit touches.

no hunter has come to reveal us in this dwelling place.

the water nymphs witnessed all that we’ve done while in their home-

it’s no secret that the hills and trees have eyes,

hush, for their sight don’t leer nor scorn,

not minding carrying this partial secret,

offering safety in screaming this love out.



now i’m back to drawing your place beside mine on afterwork takeout receipts,

scribbles from memory of the secret place,

and casting my hopes upon the prismatic sky.



the sun shows another day,

and my suncatcher capturing rainbows,

reminding me that our safe space awaits,

where the river runs through.