Life is a list of expectations .
Each day has a special intonation.
One day for your birth
The other day for your death.
The day you leave
No one will believe
That your life was just an illusion
Has anyone got this confusion?

it scares me that
he's gonna know all of me,
it terrifies me that
he's gonna know me from the inside out,
but for some reason,
I'm not scared to know all of him.

Love is all about the details,
I learned that from you.

The best example being the morning of the winter storm,
How when you were about to leave,
I was reminded that I always had a thing for a girl in uniform.

We hugged before you left, and I remembered that
My favourite part of being close to you,
Is the essence of lilac sewn into your sweater.

I adored the fact that your toque,
The one that never fit you quite right,
Carried the scent of your strawberry hair.

“Be safe” I said.
It was only a five minute drive,
But when I saw the smile in your eyes
I knew you understood what I really meant.

As a priest one serves

in the churches in the hell --


of confessionals.

If

  To be or not to be is an

           uncertainty

               And

   Cogito Ergo Sum is a

  theoretical supposition

              Then

    Surely, 22/7 must

        be Pi in the sky.

There will never be enough words for you.
Probably that’s why I keep trying.
But what you mean to me is a swell of feeling, something I don’t know how to find voice for.
Not all the way.
You ask me for an explanation, for reason, for words when they don’t exist.
I am pleonastic, skin covered in scrawled ink,
But I can’t give you what you want,
Can’t give you something that is swimming so large inside me.
Because what I feel for you is more than me, more than I have ever had contained within me before.
I love you like you’re mine.

I didn't want you,
I wanted love
and I have realised
that they are not the same thing.

You were a mould
that I poured my insecurities in,
a computer I tried to program.

But you are a sky,
stormy and clear and rainy and warm.

You were so blue when I longed for red.

I didn't want you.
I wanted the thought.

In all my poem reading,
I haven't been able to relate to a love poem.

Until tonight,
I always thought the writers were exaggerating.

Yet, this feeling of connection is remarkable.
I suppose I would need a strange poem to describe it,
too.

butterflies and sugar rush
looking at her mane brush,
rustling of novel pages
the endless sea
sat by the porch she,
why?
there's arousal for the causal,
and what followed since?
the fruit seems forbidden
and looks a lot like quince,
the endless sea,
sat by the porch she
where do the waves go
we shall see.