Cat

I shant have thought to be a cat

who's curiosity is true

to think but what would mean of that

ignorance but bliss too?

To see the world lust as a place

to explore and play and roam and live!

Abandon left in perfect pace

To give their life a place to live

Wherever whatever it were i'd spy

Would be mine as real as mine own eye.

Miss Blue Eyes

Miss Blue Eyes,

why can't you be free

from the torments of this

world: the weight of molecules

colliding to make you have to

react.

It can be so nice,

my arms I hear. Can hold

three people and them weightless.

If only for that fleeting second

the hummingbird taught me, I could

make you weightless too.

Wait less is what I

want to do. But more than that

I want you to be well, and good,

and confident that the constituents

of your anatomy will elect you

their favorite leader.

I can try to campaign for you

if you let me in your screen door and

through the window white. If

you let me cook you hamburgers,

or spaghetti with a fine marinara

meat sauce, like I did once before.

That was nice, Miss Blue Eyes,

for me, at least.

And though I've given part of

my heart to you as I do to all,

it weighs nothing and I'll never

ask for it back either. I just

ask that you know how hard

it is to sit idly by. A car mechanic

with no car and no hands.

I just ask you to let me

know when I can be with

you and if I make you

feel nice.

I think if you do then that

piece of my cardiovascular

whole will grow and grow. If

it gets to big and you get scared,

just set it in my mailbox. But pull

off a piece first, it's for you'd

like it.

As hard as it is to say:

Don't worry about me,

I'll be fine Charlie Brown.

Machine

Perched high on my

silver mountain

the blood lined linens

are spun with the

plumes of purple peacock

feathers they weather the

whethers or not in their

maytag container. Soaked

spun washed warm with

the ungaudy bleach they

come out pearls. Shiny,

spherical, white wonder

worn out.

The Grapeskins

I.

Squeak.

As we brush together in cheeks

Squeaks to match

the matchstick's white blaze

of indecent exaltation.

Squeaks like the macaws yellow

cries for the clawed confusion

of impermanence.

Squeaks.

II.

We merely squeak, already

torn in half by teeth like thor

hammers, cast from dark crimson

clouds, silt walter vapor, and dust.

We spill our water guts blindly

in the molar embrace. Now,

nothing more than purple and green

flecks floating in the dark.

The match merely chauffeurs

combustions. As the destination

is reached: white, orange, and blue

vibrant burnt bursts of heat

and light illuminate. It's purpose

is achieved in it's seared charcoal

skeleton, bent the only way

fire bends.

From it's perch the macaw merely

squawks. As it sees brief instances

of it's green given world

changing. It's jungle camoflouge

is unfit for the brooklyn pavement.

What with it's centrifugal salt and pepper

plume. And it's rust speckeled azure tipped

wings. It's flight prevents, groundedness,

It squawks.

III.

What if it were, we were the last,

The three of us and none?

Torn up grapeskins, a bird, a match

Would our importance ever come?

Would our mind's macaw fly away?

Leaving my matchstick and just me

or would it in it's sadness stay

In attempts at wingless free.

Or would it occur that we'd just cease

As the humans all are gone?

Would existence matter if it did not please

The ones no more, who defined the dawn.

We are but grapeskins we cannot laugh

So we squeak in cheek at what man can't grasp.

White Mississippi Lynching of the Freedom Summer: 1964-2010

White Mississippi Lynching of the Freedom Summer:
1964-2010

“You sir, are a racist!”
They said.
When they looked me in
the eye and were
afraid.

“You are the one
with a problem.”
They said.
As they told me that they
were the ones with the money
and the guns
and the words
and the knifes
and the handcuffs
and the tanks
and the nukes
and the whips
and the chains
and the skin.

They said I am the one with the problem
as they locked my
handcuffs in place;
speckling red drips
on white forearms
like red crosses
on white hoods.

Their eyes are all
I can see through my puffy
swollen face, laying
on the side of the road,
being dragged into the
woods, while my
tongue is cut
out and while my own
likeness ceases to search for me.

While my own likeness
continues to torture my
body, my flesh:
c / u /t, my entrails springing

out like the
alarm clock
I tried to be:
broken.

There are few like
me in this world
and fewer still
like me in its history.

The whistle blower
holds the same letters as
my alleged skin color,
but if I point
it out, I can be martyr for no one
but I can be killed.

Historically speaking,
I will actually be silenced.

Historically speaking.
I will actually be silenced
by the very category of people
I see in the mirror.
The very category of people
who say, “You sir, are a racist.”

Well then, I must walk this
chalk-drawn-line
on tiptoes.
For the white dust that marks
the world’s walk
is dotted with drops of blood!

The same as the ones on my forearms
and the same that
have stained my shoes.
And the same that have stained
their white hoods.

I sir, am a racist.
I must let them know
that they are right.
For I am not white.

I am pink.
I am the blood of oppression
that has been worn in my coat jacket
past down from my father and his father before.
I am that blood stained red that
is all that’s left of it’s white leather beginning,
that my father can barely see and that his
father can’t see at all.

I am the permeation of that stain through that jacket
into my skin, and into my own blood.
It courses through my blue veins of empathy
into my purple heart of love and becomes my own red blood.

I am forever changed of color,
“white” skin stained pink.
The same red blood runs in me now that
has always been spilled.
Perhaps if the red of human blood
was the only,
the only color everyone cared about
then maybe it wouldn’t matter that I’m pink.

Maybe it wouldn’t matter what color anyone was.

Knuckles

Knuckles.

I.

I guess I laid my backhand
down on the sunspot burner;
boiling- red – communist:

Giving and taking equally,
as its warmth to bone-shank soup
allows growth—its warmth to
flesh though, chars and scalps,
my knuckles raw: cracked cobblestone,
black and peeling top layers.

II.
Prayers for third degree
burns need not fly to the other
side of my palms. They should drip into
the rivers run with pollution, brackish and
swimming with silt. Like my lungs, post pack consumption.

There the water prayers, liquid humanity,
will be filtered and cleaned and will leap
from little home taps, faucets, and sinks:
rustic brown-red metals, shiny silvers, cold
and gray pipette giraffes, children’s toys
largely ignored until: burn.

III.
The flesh singed, epidermal ruptures occur:
blisterous mountain tops popped with the
abandon of boredom and dissatisfaction.
Infection holed up under finger nails are
Toe jam hermits, vagrants, bumming smokes
under freeways, not speaking- for the cars on
the overpass speak for them--
they say nothing.
They stay there until there is no
room left for them.
They get reckless, and pull apart that ground
leaving pink tender craters outlined in translucent
vulnerable flaps of flesh, infected unless:

IV.
Those prayers made it into the water.
Cool, soothing H two prayers.

I can leave the scarred arms and singed bricks the
vagrants pulled up from my cobblestone
walk. I simply need to turn on the water.
Other humans will run over my hot red skin,
little circles of shame, they will
soothe
my

Burn.

The L Train

The L Train

Your slanted azure (sk)eyes;
with their brown splinters-
that cloud the black pupil, they
caught mine on that ride.

They held memories in
place; like that blue house
with the magenta ivy side,
which sat on the corner plot,
next to your house on our street.

The simple street we
ran when we were foot-racing,
when the wind felt like paint
brushes, bristling dry red
blush left in lines marking our
bodies:

Warriors of innocence.
Warriors of a grace conflicted.
Like bleeding red cuts for the sake of
never bleeding at all.

We would touch the brown
wood door, who still bore the
image of the oak tree it came from
within our own minds, then we
would sprint head-first

Back! To your lawn panting,
gasping for breath. Our lungs
clawed for consensus with
our brick-hued heart.

We looked to circulate
the blood they pump, the
same blood that courses now
on these tracks. Though, it
travels now in larger veins.

Of course, those weren’t your
(sk)eyes. Of course, they’ve never
seen the course we ran those days.
Of course though, only you and I
had ever seen the azure skies
and brown splinter clouds that
marked the course boundaries of our
racetrack all along.

Cincinnati or: The place I had a home

Cincinnati or: The place I had a home.

Careening down the highway,
275 loop eastbound past the Kenwood rd. exit.
I pause
and light a cigarette.

There is no longer solace on this
slick black sober road or in the
pond shallows I pass that sit awestruck
like the men who saw the suicide, silent and static:
in front of my red brick and green-blue
bottle glass highschool I see fleeting.

The tall white oak decaying in the
middle of its front entrance stands a
pillar of what education?
I “learned” by sitting in beige desks
with the chair still attached like shackles
cutting into my spine rather than my wrists.

I never bled, but each day left the tan hallways
over the mismatched green and white tiles
through the dried yellow fields into my grey
car, rolling to Cornell road. Until I get back
to Lake Isabella, the place I would fish

when my father was still waking at
4:30 and was still walking into
my room.

The lake passed, I’m back to the yellow farmhouse
The one that’s stood since the civil war, the one
where Morgan’s raiders slept peacefully
in their burlap pop tents waiting.
The one that has a new neighbor
designed by the coats and sold to the
yuppies who just want their children
to attend my red brick and green-blue bottle glass highschool.

“Buy them a bicycle” I say as I flick my cigarette
in their yard- I learned more on Twightwee rd. past the Arby’s
by 84 lumber the time I realized the folded leather
that held me inside was lost, and the
six-pack I had in my hand was running out.

You can’t bike back up Loveland Maderia. You just
can’t fit between the corvettes and cadillacs. You have to
get back to the bike path with the fresh asphalt.
The one that takes you all the way to Morrow past the old
ammunition factory where my grandparents live. You
have to take it back to the Pony Keg where they sell
to underage children.

You can ride back down Loveland Maderia sure,
but only through the Walgreen’s lot and past the
Speedways that were Marathons.
Then you walk next to the 275 loop back to
bike trail and past Lake Isabella, where my
father took me to fill the air in my bike tires
the air pump neatly stationed out of place
by the boat rental. Just like a sun cap in the
moon’s souvenir shop.

He should never have put any air in those
tires. Then I’d never had lost myself
and now coming down the 275 loop
wouldn’t feel so much like returning to my coffin:
mahogany, vinyl, and cold.

Train

Train

I am confined to the cold
rusting steel and splintered
wooden slats. Only moving from
point: a. to
point: b.
There is no freedom, never was.

I was created to be obsolete.
They made me to work and
then made the little metal play things.
Rouge breasted coupes with
belts for stopping the passengers.
Little metal play things to turn at
stop lights or stop
. On a dime
when I cause the salt and peppered striped
dividers to fall like the sides of their
drivers lips, and the skin in between their brows
falls too, and sweats like my steam, theirs
in anger, mine in exhaustion.

Am I really that awful?
That my back breaking freight
isn’t enough for the precious
minutes ticking away like tellers’
fingers counting stacks of money:
chugging along, regular, like me.

Sometimes, the coal black that my
back holds is not equal to the red of my
engine coal they throw in me with
no mercy. My heart it burns glowing orange
and red haze, for as long as they
deem I must move.
My spinal columns connected by
little iron loop bones connecting car to car,
the weight pulls the cool metal taut for as long as
they deem I hold it.

Their favorite fuel
is my burden and I have no choice to
place it on my shoulders, armless to steady.

Surely those beings who made me can see
that sometimes Atlas needs encouragement
and would love a break from his eternal weight.
I wish, I were Atlas. At last then, the
weight I hold would be for everything,
and not for the slanted angry eyes
who’s blues and browns never
sparkle in their disgust at their wait,
in their shoveling for my heart,
in their contempt for my obsolescence.

Alas, though, I am no Atlas.
I just bear my freight and plug
along. No one knows that each
whistle’s a wail of hope
to get off these tracks. And the steam
the closest to tears that my life
will ne’er see that day.

Guilty.

how heavy heaven feels

in the weight of my fingers

stroking the skin between

my eyebrows and nose

calculations are cold

and the rigidity of their

actions cannot be left

in the memories of hands

that are not my own.

How hollow? How long until

this hallowed presence

will be gone this time?

I had my convictions made

and there on that bench

I took three steps back.

mother may I stop shaking

now and feel again?

It is refreshing yes,

but this is frightening.

I know it will always

continue but the difference

is just that.

This emptiness eclipsed

by ghost arms who never hold me anymore.

i wish that reality

was subjective

and no one got angry or

sad

and that we could all just be happy.

there were flowers in the sill

of the farmhouse windows,

and the storm shutters

were still open for the evening

they left out the lemonade pitcher

and glasses on the porch

and the horseshoes

were strewn about the yard.

but the storm shutters

were still open for the evening.

into the morning they would remain.

but eventually they must go back

to the hard work of

protecting a thin pane.

and they creak when they close

groans, shouts, of agony

in their existence

they pray to jesus that they will

never be used again

but the clouds are moving quickly.

their yellow is peeling and

the rust on their screws

pinch them as they turn,

misinformed hands have moved

them from their rest

and they wait poised until

the light can pass through again,

solemnly they weather the tears

of rain.

it was just peeking through

the lines of the shade

and painting that sepia tone

to our floor

that portrait framed, i had one choice

whose consequences were not my own.

i own them though

and keep them in my breast pocket

it's crowded there

everything that's spilled over

can't seem to find a better place

and i am left

a child.

Looking at dandelions

like they were roses

and hating that they sprout in my chest.

pock marked like cheeks

with memories

blotches of red rise

and soften, where i never could.

2003

Regardless of the way you meant

I heard the words I heard

And with them make my own lament

Rather, mad your meaning blurred.

Interpretation comes each to own,

and yours and mine differ.

They creak and break as stairs will groan,

when met with boot and spur.

I hope that you meant no offense

As I meant none towards you,

Yet we own each side beyond this fence

and think what next to do.

In the end it seems, we've both just died to lore,

misinterpretation began to start this silly war.

Babies

Suppose a mind is not well read

Is blank and cannot read.

Suppose it knows of living and dead

and the things these things both need.

What then shall we all must do?

To make this mind that great.

Reason says "they are but new

to soon yet, to speculate."

But suppose that then it's just been born.

How shall we then must act?

As sheep to shepherd's clippers shorn,

we fill them up with facts.

We make them learn the books on our shelf,

and steal, for our own, any trace of their self.

Tonight I hear the faintest voice

Tonight I hear the faintest voice

singing chorus to stars above.

And in that moment comes a choice

of Solitude and Love.

In this morning I hear the clock

yank me from my stoic rest.

I think of those old human rocks

statues, of bust and breast.

This afternoon I heard their words

with me in nature's green.

And in the wingspan of the birds

and in other things, unseen.

So in Solitude or Love I find,

that Solitude is deaf or blind.

Eternal View

The sky it looks much clearer there,

Through her docile staring eyes

Her lips are sit inside her stare

her brows, downward lie.

Yet in her face she holds her mind

and her hope; erupted true!

Proud lips cannot hold back her bind

of canvas, her eternal view.

Her sight- they hold her future bright

her expression sits next to me,

We walk the walls of that round night

still searching, for what we see.

But as we search, she is not the same

For her painter gave her, not a name.

Poll in. Ate it.

Poll in. Ate it.

That seed they planted

cracked under the earth,

It's roots thin, barely

gaining the nourishment.

Yet the stem a rose

green, the party it joined

above the dirt. The

company there worse

than the dark surrounding

that had pushed and

pressured the initial break,

Above ground they

are all like it.

And they are all

the color of what stems

from the evolution of

years. It fruits there

and briefly begins

to unfold-

but the expectations

were great. And the

lofty flow, er,

shoot thats what bloomed-

could not stay.

It's petals they

wilted, and it's stamen

ceased to stare

the giving sun.

and the weeds

strangled the life

left in their fellow sprout

amassed in brazen

turmoil it has died

in the green expectancy

of it's own kind

who grew with and

alongside. Who conceived

the parts of it. Who

killed when it was too beautiful?

Def Poeme

If i could craft the music like i can my words

a symphony the likes unheard

of swelling melodies

and harmonious notes dot

the lines of the clefs bereft

my thoughts emote

the rhythms aligned so softly

to float your weary mind away

to the thoughts of green

If i could pen a rest in time

like the periods of these lines

it would stop your breath and halt your mind

and then noise again vibrantly shining

the violin strings would echo your name

in chorus sing the pleasant refrains

of my arm on your shoulder

the bass line wouldn't smolder

but hold her head up like my fingers on your chin

and the brass section i'd play would

begin to step in and sway your hips

and we'd dance, yes we'd dance

If I could beat a drum to mimic our hearts

when we're holding each other to start

the timpani would be deafening

and the snares it would be fair to say

delicate claps of the finger play between our hands

the band alive from the bass drum beats

that swell behind and lifts our feets

in four four time to waltz again

and look back to stare those times, we smile within.

Def Poetry #28

it seems as though I cannot stay

put in one frame of mind

I feel as if wind scattered brain

ideas taking flight with no heed

fleeting flashing and darting

through this skull

absorbing every instance

acknowledging every thought

to the fullest extent of the law.

changing.

subtly slowly I change.

And my heart it cries.

as it always has.

a quiet tear broken on the

face of laughter,

chilling to my bones

i can smile and emote

the happiness of my being

but part and whole feel separate.

it is unnerving to say the least.

for I tear myself consistently

in the tugs of the needles of self

in the patchwork of connecting thoughts

I lose with each sharp stitch a

previously understood idea replaced with

a stronger thread

a newer material

something more durable

for the hole that stitch had filled

the connection it had made

the frame of mind it

represented.

resented.

My self

resented.

My self

resented.

The apple and the tree.

"Here I sit,"

Said the apple to the tree

"Upon the ground beneath

your leaves"

"and here I'll stay,"

The apple said,

"I suppose until I'm dead."

"Or I guess until I bloom,

my roots break yours,

a gradual doom."

"It's funny though,

for through and through,

You are me, and I am you."

"And if my roots shall bring you down,

Or I lay dead upon this ground,

We'll both continue one by one,

But one of us must see this dawn."

Or Anything

She raises her eyebrows

and bows to the screen,

safely letting in the air

after the glass pane is lifted.

She raises her eyelids

and glimpses sideways, that

she may catch the animation

from that VCR to screen.

She lifts her hands

and touches her infant son-

becoming in her womb.

And holds his hands in hers.

She raises her upper lip

and lets her tongue taste

the sweet saline drips

in cool collected fear from her glands.

She raises her chin

to face the digital clock

and hammer her raising alarm

and opens her shades.

She raises her foot and leg

and stands to walk her

room. Stands to move

herself, move her blood.

She raises her fingers

and swipers away the

dreams from her eye corners

and pulls her cheeks.

She raises her lungs

and lowers them focusing

on her understanding of

life: breathing, breathing, breathing.

She lifts her hands

and touches where there is

no flower. No bloom, no stamen or stem,

or petal, or pollen

Or anything. She raises her

toes and sets them back on

the blades, so lush and

full she raises the corners of her mouth.

Passion

Beyond that faint thought,

through the meadows and creeks,

I see a monument held

up by the stone. Cold, firm,

Structured to balance the weight.

Inside the visitor center we read

the plaque: "Here inside a man

stands and never sits."

His stoic face traced in grays

and blacks and flecks of silver.

But there still shone just a gleam,

just a spark in his eye.

And with his hand pointed

the sun falling through the cloud,

I can feel his wrist catching

and lifting our star back into

the sky. I too never sit-

as long as I can

for the pocket ticks and

I must rise again.

Dust can't gather on

a monument, and dusk can't

set unless it is given

permission.

Eyes the tongue

Eyes the tongue

Sight tasted. Wasted away

with legs.

Evoluntionary dissent

Serpentine dreams dashed

in a selection process so normal

it was natural.

And with eyes like that

you see we're all evolved,

or else we've bred

with snakes.

Skin pulled to tight around

my lips. Pulled to tight

around this pen.

The mane with black marble eyes

and neck stretched up

to the sky

No need to look any longer.

Birthday Poem

Mum's the word

that we never spoke,

but the allusions therein

of my mother were never silent!

Vibrant rather!

Her cool demeanor and keen interest

kept us alive,

kept us living.

Even though I'll wear shorts

when it's less than 60 degrees,

that is still the benchmark

of what makes a nice day.

She was always calm

and always soothing

and she can listen- even

when it hurts us both

But she knew she had too.

I could thank her forever

for ever she will converse with me,

but for ever for her love, I need not thanks!

Birthday Poem

On those midnight's

when my father worked late,

the war movies always

found a way onto our screen

There really wasn't room for popcorn,

but the blankets made the belly empty.

We had left that basement again

and left the blankets out.

He was tired,

my father, but he was nice.

He smelled like the office

and the way I smell after a long car ride

We could always see that he was taller than our house,

but our home was always tall enough

for no worries, to worry would be foolish

but a fool is one who has known no love.

We saw the flies

crawling along my shoes

these souls long for company anyway

and i don't mind

We were sitting on sofas anyway

when we saw the flies that is

but it wouldn't last long

Sitting on the sofas that is.

For we had a new day to charge

with celebration

yes we did when we saw the flies.

But they couldn't stop us.

The great and black and purple clouds

held the rain back long enough

to see the sun set

and then to sleep

and then we saw the flies.

While we were sitting on sofas.

A place of memory none of which

I've ever shared.

And the serenity eclipses even my arm

and as I feel her rise and fall with each

print of the finger touching key

I sigh and think about the day.

A celebration indeed

for we have risen.

Risen with the flies,

we saw them anyways.

We saw the flies,

crawling across my shoes

We drank our coffee black

and met everyone at that church breakfast.

I've always seemed to think that celebration

was a fine idea.

The shivering flame

one on that single lonely lovely wick

Stampedes the darkness

And I above my body

Eye the eyes of the wall

The wood grain is itching,

fiending,

unabatedly for the release of that sweet sealant

to encompass our world in it's

liquid design.

Attached to the magnetism of solidity they never stand a chance.

Somberly I return

to the binds of my own bodily prison

I rise again and lick my lips

And lick my fingers

Saliva

A single touch

dark,

Def Poetry #22

My Intelligence eclipsed

From the light that slipped past the shade

I can still care and I'm still brave

lines lifted from your pages

and the stages of this is bliss

found past the lines lifted on my face

displaced touch still felt from your

fingers trace

the war paint facade

brightly wrapped in lace,

slap the pace and we're

running head first in this race.

but surely you can't think

I'll slow this train.

Cutting words like coupons

I post them on your mind

and the bent defense leaves me blind

by your light and I'm staring

to intently to account for your

countenance

Take a backward glance on me

and transcend this delight transcends

my frights and I feel like jumping.

I just might you know?

I just might.

Def Poetry #21

so show me your shoulder blades

and i'll show you my sign

that i left propped up against your walls

i heard it fall in the night but thats okay

cause i just woke up and smiled

her heart, i hear, can be heard from her head

and i hear her heart in mine

and i hear her veins, rather the cells

moving through

and i silently sigh

and i silently smile.

for after awhile i notice we're both awake

but more important we're both alive

and you can call me silly but this feels real.

something like that- yea.

something like that.

so show me my place on your bedside table

and i'll show you yours on mine

i leave you propped up against my chest

and i feel you fall and rise in the night but thats okay

cause i just wake up and smile.

her mind, mayhaps, materializes marvels

and i marvel at the magnificence therein

and I hear her soul, yes her soul

moving through

and I silently listen

and I silently smile

for after awhile I notice mine moving too

but more important we're both alive

and you can call me silly but

this feels awfully real.

something like that.

yeah, something an awful lot like that.

so show me a reason to say im sorry

and ill show you that i'm not for pulling you closer

i'm not sure how exactly to phrase

or convey the way that I mean

but it's something like that.

i think if its not already it's only a matter of time yeah,

something an awful lot like that.

Def Poetry #20

silently smiling i left-

and deftly your words crept

up and slept in my brain

displacing the swept complaints

of inept restraints i had placed

to chase away the wept afraids

and on my walk i heard your words talking

in their sleep

awakening the happy feelings hidden deep

braiding the time and place

to secure a more solid pace

imminent release of the rise and fade

and the sunlight from the shade

plays across your face

in this memory of that smile that spread,

in our shared bed

lazily lingering, your fingers

still give chase in the hair on my neck and the back of my head

and i still can feel the press of your lips

and the warmth of your body displaced

into mine and mine slipped into yours

and yours slips into my mind

i smile and walk silently by

day dreaming my life, as it takes its real shape

the black and white lens of this embrace

provides escape from the thoughts that race

and your hands

have walked the small of my back

and back to their home in my own

and i've seen the place in your eyes

where there is no black

just the brightest of light

and as our lips press so tight

an understanding grace falls slightly-

and in that profound sound of silence smiling

i begin to think that you and i, we got it right

or it got me right

or it got us right

yeah it got me the right motivation

the motive elation of the momentous

anticipation

and in these moments i masquerade in movement

so momentary like laughter in times of maturation

and surely i'm shared in this jubilation.

for living in this life has been breathtakin.

my breath has been takin

and i stand unshaken for the memories

in my mind are consistently insistent on replaying.

Def Poetry #19

I like the pace of the snowflakes,

falling in place on my mouth to taste your lips-

and each crystallized pattern, your hand,

as they graze my face

and the cold melts away

my thoughts start to race

the companions agree with my motive,

and this note is more than the words wrote-

its the way I feel as you press

your cheek to mine-

and when I look you in the eyes

and see past the past lives

that I've looked at to find

this

If I could hold this place in time forever

I would-

for feeling this infinite is to fleeting for whenever

and if I were more clever

I'd find a more connotative means to write this letter

but my pen is running low on ink

and I think I feel the sands of

sleep beginning to sink into the

lids of my eyes-

and the corners feel the solid

but they also feel warmer

for another day, holds another chance

to hold her.

and the dreams of tonight

promise sweet flight to the arms

of the sunrise and the breaking

sight of the sky and the light.

drab or dreary clouds are not proud enough

to stab and weary or shroud the feelings of this time-

and the weather merely separates

the short walk to your place and my place

in your arms and yours in mine.

redundantly apparent I feel further than fine.

I don't know how else to convey

the way I feel when our fingers intertwine.