sometimes
i read my own writing
and wonder what it's like to know me

hoping the words will open a window
let the clean air in
so i can climb through the frame
inspect the damage, avoid
the broken glass
turn on the lights

wishing the words would be more straightforward
yes and no
black and white
this is how you feel
deal with it

well, i feel done with dealing with it
in monochrome, shades of grey
stealing away the colours
of a cartoon landscape
i think that this would be easier dealt with
if i could see it all through stained glass
diamond-shaped panes
breaking up the scene, shattering
the illusions unseen
and through rose-coloured glasses
black and white become so much more obvious
to my strained, searching eyes

sometimes
i read my own simple, twisted writing
and i wonder what it's like to know me
not the words, not the straight lines
that curve around my soul
but the soft ones
that make up my body, that protect
my smile and my eyes
and the ones that lead gently down to my hands
twisting around each other
in some dance
that attempts to hide the constant urge
to write out my disbelief in the existence
of myself

yes and no
still escape me
but i keep finding shards of stained glass
like a treasure hunt, like some accidental quest
picking them up from the damp sidewalk
discovering them cutting into an open palm
and i take them, then accept the offered hand
looking off into the sunset
through the bright blue and blood-red
of sharp reality

sometimes
i find the words
before they find me

One year, seventy six poems
and twenty five thousand glances
later.

You are gone.
I am alive.
Still.

He is here.
I want him to be.
And only for myself.

The wants have disappeared,
the time has finally come.

Give of yourself for yourself.

So I shall
this time
take a step forward
no more two behind.

Feel whatever comes,
take whatever gives.

*Almost dying with a smile on my face.

Fine, I will confess.
You have me.

You have me smiling at
the perfect shape of your perfect words.
Though half the world
create the distances between us
you map them with
the mere presence of you.
And I feel lonely no more.

You have me awake at night,
combing the depths of my half-awake mind,
searching for pieces of you
to go to dreamland with.

I sometimes blink twice
on a perfect moment,
as if to take a mental picture for you.
I sometimes rub my hands together
to feel how warm your face might feel like.

You have me.

You just do.

If I could put to words
what this year was,
I would say--
****.

**** this ******* year.

Thirteen years into
the second millenium,
was as unlucky as the number
said it would be.

This year was about
being on my own,
being sad,
being alone.

Yet I found,
poetry, and that death
could never be the answer
to questions I'd rather not ask.

I found friends
in people halfway
across the whole
world.

Love from the people
of my kind--
poets--
who loved and despaired.

This year was not
the one I would remember;
because new beginnings
are often disguised
as painful endings.

So here is to
my new beginning.