You remember our first kisswhen I almost bit your lip? We were standing in the snow.I’ll never forget. You were never judgmental,never heartless, never icy. Didn’t think the day would comewhen you weren’t still beside me. Sleep well, My Love.I’ll be there soon.
I write, “A cardinal stopped outside my window and the nurses let me eat pizza.” You write, “Happy Birthday,” and for me to keep my wishes. I write, “I’ll save them for you so one day you can visit.” You write how that would be cool, whenever you feel sick less. I write, “Someday, like […]
Damn death- swimming through labyrinthine waves. You were here today, kinetic, tangible, I swear I kissed your face. I swear I gazed upon the light you emanate. Damn. Death, the beauty that doesn’t belong to you, why are you so willing to take?
We found grace in streams of yesterdays and dreams of tomorrows. We found it in interlaced fingers, tiptoeing on snow-covered decks, in late night fingertip massages, reclined, while winter vibes vibe to crackling firewood. Thank God. We found peace.
I, human, also known as charlatan, surmise that this too shall pass. Obfuscating our own eyes with our own beauty, & our own lies, while the world burns, waiting for its own time to see that pale, white unicorn, pointing its horn at a red giant. Too late for latent gratitude.
I’ve been feeling old. Came in surrounded, gonna die alone. When did winter come? This world is so damn cold. The sun’s been getting bold. It left, took my heart, like a bar of gold. With your summer gone, who’s gonna save my soul? All your doors are closed, shut out the fire, keeping in […]
They part ways at the Sea of Indecision, her reaching for his hand, him leaving a kiss on the wind. Years pass. The sea dries away. She tells her son of red flags, of surrender, bad omens, perturbation. “But could you swim?” asks her son.
She pounds it, drills it into his core. He is nothing. Trash. This is her language- a mother’s love. He learns to speak it as the years pass. And when he finds love, he tells her, “You are nothing. “Nothing without me.” This is his language, but she doesn’t speak it…
Rough draft, through his tattered curtains, where he lay upon shattered glass. He’d promised to rewrite this part of his life. In honesty, he’d hoped it’d pass. No one thought he had much to say. Not one, not one person warned him. He grabs himself and writes away…
There’s power in your words, seasoning in your wind. Bit drafty is your love, but tastes like cinnamon, tastes like trust, like moonshine, sunrise, us…