What tender hands
and lovely finger pads
thumbing cloth and
phone screens:

If tender buttons can
be pushed through
a buttonhole then

a rigid zipper
might also
bend and sigh

A *** bubbles
up and under
the shaky lid
clamped shut.

As a child,
my mother would
chide me for

lifting the lid
of rice and
stirring too early.

I was letting
out all the
steam.

But the bubbles
sticky white and
bursting over begged

to be released.

For a time,
my body was
not my own.

I boiled,
simmered,
then cooled.

Lifted the lid,
scraped the sides,
and stirred.

The rush of Fall leaves
Crunchy utterances under
Winter boots –
I hate the Summer

Sunrise sunshine, save a
Defiant silhouette beside mine
Breathing quiet ocean tides –
Innocence like Springtime

If I spent an afternoon
Cloaked in the scent of your muse:
Wildflower Spirits.
The Spring Deluge.
Would you love the sound of my voice in your ears?
I left the taste of trust on your lips
-An attempt at bliss-
Hand in hand,
The rainfall covers us.
It covers us.

There, my Love steps and
Here, my love follows like a small moon in orbit
My soul raptured and
Smothered amongst her rising Sun's Shadows...
Waiting...
I find myself buried like bad habits-
A pack of cigs for her glossed lips
On a Thursday afternoon stroll.

Those doe-like eyes and your rosy lips
Make these liquid emotions collide and swoon -so when they mix-
Infectious is the way I feel them bloom
Inside my heart so smitten;
I swear you love it too.
I swear you feel it too.
And I swear this space grows with graceful Hues: Orange-Purple sunset lulls that pull
The strings of our two souls
So catalytic, the strum that hums nascent Blues.
Listen...
It sings You and I as a
Primordial premonition of truth, the Downpour like Tuesday Rainfall.
And You?
The pluming sensation reigning in my Skies, breathes when I feel you feel me...
When I love you wholly, surely you'll see us Truly.

Over the span of three years and some days,
I've only written forty-nine poems.
I am not a poet.