Sunday, November 28, 2010


My hips still go soft when I see your name.
You. I've decided you're bad.
I catch my breath.

Leave me with the sound of my name, trailing,
Incomplete. You exit the scene.
I barely hear you asking me with sugar lips,
Barely, and you're walking away from the answer,
One foot in front. Then the other.

Once, not so long ago, I too
Had thought I could walk away.

Since, I've been standing in the same place
So long the roots of these trees bear witness
To my history. I have nothing more to offer you,
Nothing that isn't dormant. Hope springs eternal,
The unfurling of a leaf or a gentler hand
To undress me tonight and linger
Long enough to find the soft curve of my hips.

I'm squinting in the sunlight.
The disciplinary whip of my hair
Against my face is no delicate lover's touch.
This is not you. This is fall. Sadness.
Never mind the invisible pollen of heartbreak,
It's always had a size of it's own.

I'm letting something go. Even with my eyes closed
This has become too big to hold onto.
Two small hands cupped and, still, it wasn't enough,
My plus one didn't stick around and slipped away.
Scorched salamander.

Am I still saying your name in my sleep?

My body had been your map.
I had been a passenger in your hands.
You had belonged to me.
The night had fallen slowly
Against the low drawl of my name.

Are you certain
You don't want a gentle hand
To undress you tonight?

Monday, August 9, 2010

Personal Moth

The intoxicating nectar of inspiration landed closely, fluttering.
I remember looking up, I remember when everything changed.
Anticipation, like bats, whipped through this place
And left a disaster in its wake.

I had an excess of unclaimed love, just laying there
In the winter coffin of sadness. I was feeling adventurous.
I was feeling all kinds of things. Mostly, I was feeling you.
Now I feel out of sorts.

There's a small reflex separating instinct from wishful thinking.
Sadness is the cost of chance. Hope is the paper cut.
The whisper of lilac skies fade, buttery soft. Mail stacks unopened.

I don't know what enough is, I don't know what it would have taken.
I didn't get enough of you. There's a hummingbird in my heart.
There's a butterfly on my mouth. I want more. I miss you.

The memory of fingers is surprisingly visceral. Cruel.
Skin, papery thin, and the scent of happiness. Warmth,
More specifically, yours. Ghost. Flutter, stuck in the branches
Of my melancholy. I'm having to share you with the universe
And I don't want to.

I'll see you on the other side.

You're wicked the way you touch everything you see.
Wicked the way you burn your flame.
I'm not home but I'm somewhere. And I'm in such a state,
Fluttering around you. Birthday cake, frosting and all that.
Your flame is bright and strong, and I'm sad.

Monday, April 19, 2010

As Close to Heaven

The indelible ink of my negligence consumes me.
No mark is yet on my skin is by chance. The sky is yellow.
I'm following you, quickly burning past the price of being alive.

My jealousy is innocuous and lacks true commitment.
The hangover of defeat is simple, and the years go by.

My lips taste of a memory, the romance of citrus.
I lay so close to heaven. So close that sleep
Doesn't know what to do with my body
And dreams come to me while my eyes are still open.
I'm stuck in the middle between you and here.
I want to hear you laugh. I stretch out my hand and touch you.

I wear the silky things you say to me. I am your definition.
Make your wish. I will lay down so close to heaven
That sleep won't know what to do with my body,
And my body won't know what to do with its host.

The sky opens itself up and swallows me. As close to heaven.

Your hands dance, you draw attention to yourself,
The years go by. I just want one thing. It's bigger than the sky.
I touch you so that I can fly.

I run to shed this excess hunger passing as courage.
I run to beat the parasite of appetite. I run as a form of prayer.
My capacity for you is a port, unchecked.
I just want one thing. Heaven. I stretch out my hand.

I'm underwater while you sleep. The sky opens itself up
And swallows me. It's as close as I'll ever get to heaven.
I touch you so that I can fly.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

The Accidental Gardener

I was never a waste of your time, this is my secret for you.

Your open hands are my garden.
Spring brushes the hair off your face and kisses you, then,
The little regrets buzz about while the sun starts to set,
Looking for a home, looking for conversation.

I need to find something, and I need
The industrious nature of your permanent flame.

My desire is desperate and lengthy.
New freckles crop up like surprises,
I can't describe the color of your voice,
Or the symmetry of your kindness.
Sometimes, I see you lose your footing.
I see you, I say nothing. I am often kind.
The melody of your cooling is gentle.

This liquid love is your hands
On the small of my back, but only briefly,
Maybe twice. It is also perhaps a choice,
Your breath against my face, intimate gestures,
Cropping up like surprises and freckles.

Oh, and the industrious nature of your permanent flame.

My silence is a tangled mess of improbabilities.
I know what the skin on your face feels like.
Your open hands are my garden.
You seem to have stumbled upon something of mine
That had been blooming on it's own.

I bump into every intimate gesture
You carelessly leave laying around.
I bump into all the small fires you start
And scorch my wings, just slightly.
I localize the damage and cut my hair short.
Now I am lighter. I have experience with burns.

Acting both as my parent and my undoing,
I derailed exactly as predicted and turned,
Completely unqualified to speed into the apex
Of my future with this reckless abandon,
Into the industrious nature of your permanent flame.
Sometimes these things just happen.

I will lean forward and leave you a kiss.