I Could Never Love You Enough

it is folly, this

quest

upon which i have embarked,

to love you in the amount

that you intrinsically deserve,

to find for you

an expression of this

overwhelming

gratitude.

for how could i find

something worthy

of the sun?

how could the dim,

dancing light

of a candle

blaze bright enough to

satisfy the moon?

how could a crumb,

fallen to the wayside on

some old, battered table

in a salty cottage,

feed a mouth that's

been out to sea?

how can a pebble

amount to anything

more,

greater,

than another nameless

face in a sea

of nameless faces?

how can a single drop of

rain

cleanse the soiled

hands of a traveller

who has seen the world?

how could this sole

pair of lips

cover your skin

with the infinite lavishing

that it has earned?

i do not know.

perhaps the candle must simply burn,

and the crumb must simply feed,

and the pebble must simply exist,

and the rain must simply fall,

and perhaps i must simply love

and continue to love

and continue to touch

and continue to kiss

until i have managed(if

i can manage)to

show you.

One Last Story

"They're coming," he whispered through pursed lips. I could see the tension in his jaw, the bone and muscle flexing underneath his thin, pale skin.

Nodding, I followed his line of sight into the darkness. But all I could see was velvet black out there; the moon could not even illuminate it for us, no matter how hard it tried. We were on our own.

Leaning against the door frame, my fingers curled around the handle of the wooden door. It would soon become our only protection between life and certain (painful) death. My knuckles turned white as my grip tightened and my anxiety increased. From above my shoulder, I felt his breath trickle against my neck and then heard his footsteps in the opposite direction. He was right. It would do no good to simply stand here and wait for the inevitable.

We needed to fight.

They Say That Imagination Is More Important Than Knowledge

there are many things that i

do not understand.

some are trivial,

such as mathematical equations

i've long since forgotten(the

explanations of which are,

i'm sure,

buried between the pages

of an old, spiral notebook

and years of dust).

others are more important,

such as how love can continue to grow

when the inhabitant of said love

has thought it already impossibly gargantuan,

or how the slightest of touches

from me to you

from you to me

is enough to make my

knees quiver

and my very being spontaneously

combust.

or, perhaps even more importantly,

how i do not mind any of these things,

and how not knowing the answers

is perfectly acceptable,

and all that truly

truly

matters is the fact

that you are mine

and i am yours,

and seeing your dreaming face

upon first light

is enough to humble me

and fill me

and remind me

that i

am

in love.

We Have Lost the Earth

As I drive down these populated roads, and as these colorful dwellings blur past the periphery of my vision, I imagine them gone. I imagine what it must have been like in this place, on this road, when it was nothing more than earth. I imagine what it was like for the first inhabitants to call that spot, and that spot, and that spot home. I imagine horses' hooves trotting down dirty paths, drowned out by the sound of wheels clunking over pebbles and rocks, buried in the terrain. I imagine lovers walking down this path, arm in arm, perhaps a parasol resting atop her delicately hidden shoulder. I imagine life before there was life and whether or not anyone could have imagined what it would be like now.

And then the horrendous sound of a car's outcry steals me back from these halcyon thoughts. I realize I am passing by another monstrosity of a "home," if one could even call it that; after all, how can it be a home when there is more dry wall and cement than people?; than love? I realize that I am passing by another temporal space in which another person will live out his life, having followed in the footsteps of who came before, and having laid down the path for who will come to follow. And then I realize that this is my street, and signaling to the cars around me, I continue my own journey home.

Stolen Glances Are All I Have to Satiate My Need For You (Until We Are Alone)

exchanged glances

are enough to

tide me over,

but barely,

but only.

can you read these

thoughts as my

gaze travels across

your brow

and down your jaw

and over your lips?

a tease.

a taunt.

if it were not for the

solidified fact(good

god, i hope it's a fact

and not merely a hope or a wish

or a dream)that you are

mine,

allmineallmineallmine,

i would be driven mad

with these hindering thoughts.

you take refuge in every

single

corner of my brain,

and i open myself further,

i open myself wider.

please, take as much

real estate as you would

damn well please.

it's all yours(i'm

all yours)anyway.

The Woman At the Berry Picking Fields

She doesn't mean it when she yells at him. She really doesn't. But she finds that her voice escapes her throat with more force than she meant to use, hitting his tiny, precious face with a current strong enough to make him cry. His lip begins to quiver. Her hands work frantically to try and salvage what she can from the grassy patches below her. Immediately, a tide of regret pulls her under. She can see the heat of his contained despair rising in his cheeks, threatening to explode.

But even though she feels the regret and she feels the guilt, she will not soothe him. He needs to learn. He should know better than to touch things he is not meant to. And so she stands, brushing the strands of dead grass from her knees, and pats him on the head the way she would pat an unfamiliar dog. She tells him to stop crying; they're in public, and no one wants to cause a scene.

Inspiration Comes From Everywhere

it weakens me.

joints, constructed to

keep me

afloat in this

undertoe air,

collapse as i am brought to

the

ground.

knees meet the laminate

with a quiet kiss,

trails of salt

and water

and salty water

journey down my

s

p

i

n

e.

a promise(a suggestion)

breathed in between

contact.

kept.

delivered.

As I Hold "Child Life," by J.G. Whittier

gnarled and calloused hands,

worn by years of life

and picking up his children,

touch these pages

as though they were as delicate

as the petals of a rose.

they gently skate across those

letters, so carefully pressed

onto that once-was tree,

each of them congealing

into memories

that are faint, fading like

the daylight of the setting sun.

he takes a pen to

a page,

a reminder to himself

that there is something special,

an inadvertent

reminder to the person after him

that he was once alive

and he once loved

and felt

and cried

as i do now,

touching these pages

as the delicate petals

of a rose.

Reincarnation Haunts

i believe that

these nighttime hallucinations

are

the memories of a lifetime

once lived.

there is proof.

there are seas of faces

which are known to me,

endeared to me,

loved by me

in this strange, strange

world

that i do

not

recognize(or remember)

upon waking,

yet i am not alarmed

at their existences.

there are places i have never seen

that may have never been

that may never be,

yet i call them home.

fragments of lives

i've long forgotten

or lives that have

yet to pass,

coming alive

and dancing

breathing

being

while

i am

asleep.

Circles Are Endless

Every time that I wake up, I always think about who in this world is going to sleep. And, conversely, when I go to sleep, I think about who is waking up. It's weird to me to think that, generally, there is an entire world that is busy going about its day while we are in our habitual, nightly comas.

Upon waking, especially now at an early hour, I think to myself that there are people on the other side of this beautiful globe who are winding down their days. They have spent the daylight hours in a concrete and steel building, as I will do while they are sleeping. I picture them coming home to their families, eating food of their respective country, and tucking themselves into bed. Perhaps they watch a movie while falling asleep or snuggle close to a lover. There are hormone-driven teenagers that are fighting the battle against day's darker counterpart, getting drunk and wasting time as if they had an endless supply of it. There are people falling in love for the first time, blushing as he grabs her hand and tells her that he's enjoyed her company. There are mothers singing quiet lullabies to newborn babies. There are lovers quarreling over silly, trivial things that won't matter come the morning.

And as that side of the earth awakes, I will be sliding in between the sheets of my bed, resting my head on the pillow that should have been replaced weeks ago, continuing this cycle of wake and sleep, armed to do it again tomorrow.

We're All Different in Our Conformity

a whole life(instantaneous and

fleeting)can be

contained

and explained

in a series of events:

a cry,

a smile,

a laugh,

a sigh,

a kiss,

and silence.

sure, there are things

in between,

like 2am(and 3am and 4am)feedings

and those sadie hawkins dances(the

girls ask the boys, don't you

know)and

awkward, stolen glances

from across

that room,

but strip life

of all its

ruffles and frills

and glittering distractions

and it's all the

same.

we're all the same.

so

why is it that

we try(try, try

try, like the train

in that kid's story

dads always seem to quote)so hard

to convince ourselves

that we're not?

Mainly Fiction, Partly Fact

These stories that he tells to these kids (who think that his words are merely history book fodder, not an actual life that he has lived) help him to relive those temporal snapshots. He likes recounting stories from the war, talking about Frankie and Johnny and all those good old boys alongside which he fought. He remembers chasing after those dames who tried so hard to look like Ingrid Bergman and June Haver, with their lips red like cherries and their skin as pure as silk. He remembers when curvaceous, full-bodied women were more attractive than thin, ghastly-looking girls (he still doesn't really understand this cockamamie trend). He remembers working in the lumber yard when he had returned home from Germany and how hard he had to try to forget the horrors he saw as they infiltrated Buchenwald. He saw the wretched faces and mangled, skeletal wires that were once breathing, living bodies as he tied up those chopped and sheared logs, once living trees. He remembers wondering why they had waited so long to do anything about it; how many could they have saved if they had acted upon it at first knowledge?

But his life went on, as it usually does, and he remembers falling in love with his wife. Well, back then, it was more convenience than love, but it ended up being love as time went on. He's not sure when that exact moment was or when he finally saw her as his soulmate, but he knows that it happened. He figures it was sometime around the birth of his first child, nine months after their first anniversary. Perhaps, he thinks, that's unfair to say; perhaps he has always loved her, from the moment they met at the diner and he kept watching the way her hair fell into her eyes as she laughed. She was beautiful back then; she's just as beautiful now, with her hair silver like freshly fallen snow and her deep eyes like onyx.

He lets out a laugh as he hears a kid talk about the "good old days," and he wonders if those days were when he was still in his mother's womb (because he certainly doesn't have enough years under his belt to have any sort of golden age). He wonders what the future has in the store for the world. He wonders if there's ever going to be an end to war and to death and destruction. He wonders what he's going to eat for supper.

He wonders.

Vanity and Pride and Greed are Three of the Seven Deadly Sins

she can't face herself.

no, if she were to do such a

thing,

she would no longer have an

excuse to

ignore the withering soul

that is slowly fading

inside of her.

she would have to see

who she is

what she is,

and she doesn't want to

admit the existence of the ghost of

the woman she

once inhabited.

so she lathers herself in

fabrics she's supposed to want,

and silver and diamonds

that everyone(don't they?)

wants,

and covers her face with

the most expensive

mask that money can

buy.

perhaps, she thinks, if she tries

to pretend to

be happy,

one day she will wake up

and it may actually come true.

The Worst Color of All is Green

the only connection to the

outside world, while I'm held

captive in this forsaken cube

of capitalism and greed, is

through panes of glass. i can

feel the sun warming my skin,

but you might as well

stick some fluorescent tubes up

there and turn on a heat lamp.

we'd never be able to tell the

difference. besides, there's just

so much to see along these

strategic shelves, lined up and

formulated for your very viewing

pleasure. like mindless drones,

all of them, they gravitate

as though there's some invisible

arm reaching out, pulling

them close like a long-lost

lover. it promises so much

happiness. it promises verdant

fields and halcyon seas. it

promises whatever you want it

to promise. it doesn't care.

"use me." "take me." "love me,

and i will love you in return."

and we listen. we suppress the

memories of our mother never hugging

us and the emptiness we feel inside

as we're scorned and rejected by

another unrequited love. we distract

ourselves with these plastic and

metal substitutions of life, hoping

- perhaps even praying - that

we will be saved. but it's

impossible. there's no salvation

from the monster within. you

can't be saved from yourself.

Time Seems to Fly When You're Unconscious

a year is kept

behind the closed eyelids

of my sleeping form,

and it is only when

i have let myself become

vulnerable to its

time travelling trickery

that i am

at

peace.

One Moment Changes the Course of the World

each extension carries

the weight

of a world, almost existed,

upon it.

drag your fingertips across my skin;

i feel them all.

as your thumb grazes across my lips.

1. our eyes have never met.

our words have never been shared.

our lives have never been tied.

my heart aches,

but i am naive;

i do not know any better.

i have no choice but to exist

without you.

as your index skates across the back of my hand.

2. we have exchanged sentences,

though they have not meant much.

cordiality is the name of our

pathetic, lifeless game.

we are cold and indifferent,

and we have accepted it.

as your middle glides up my arm.

3. the beginning is the same.

we both take a risk,

and we both think this worth the pain.

i am pressed against the side of my car,

the hood of my coat hovering over my eyes,

but you do not move closer.

your lips never seek mine.

you sigh quietly to yourself

as you cave into your fear,

ending our night and

what could have been.

as your ring dances down my back.

4. the most important three words

are aching to be mumbled from the

inner most depths of my insides.

i stumble and falter over them

and eventually admit defeat,

resigning to never let them pass

through my lips.

as your pinky brushes the hair from my eyes.

5. you have found someone else.

she is beautiful with

a laugh that can make the very

mountains tremble with joy.

the glow of endless summers lies

within her eyes,

turning everything to gold

with a mere glance.

she is everything

that you

deserve.

your tactile digits

have existed for

years before

they have explored me,

before

they have known me.

endless possibility

dwells

within each and every

tread that makes you unique.

but abandon these

earths and let your

adored appendages

take sanctuary upon

my chest.

please,

come closer.

these worlds melt away

with the warmth of our skin

until we are left

with nothing

but

you,

nothing

but

me,

nothing

but

us.

They Are Like Waves, Coming to Swallow Me Whole

from underneath the familiar tornado

of twisting cotton and turning

stitching and some kind of man-made

insulation, i struggle and fight to stay

alive, when all i really want to know is

why you're not here, twisting and

turning with me.

Crystal Balls Are Less Clairvoyant Than His Eyes

there are these ephemeral moments

in which she can look into

his eyes

and see what he sees

and know what he knows

and, for that transitory instant,

she thinks(being the

key

word here)she knows

the girl he can see inside of her,

(a laudable creature

who is on the receiving end

of his softest gaze

and his gentlest touch)

and, for a breath,

she believes in

this mirage,

but my god, she is

terrified.

Curiosity Killed the Cat, But Introspection Saved the Girl

it is an odd feeling

when thinking

that we are no longer

who we used to be

and we have yet to become

who we will someday be,

so all we can do is

simply be who we are,

crooked toes

and hairy knuckles and mismatched

kneecaps aside,

because at the end of the day,

we must fall asleep in

the only skin we've ever

known,

and we've really no choice

but to be

happy.

Deep Inside, They're Still Just Shouting "Mine!"

they line up as though
nature told them to.
they are mindless.
they do as their instincts
tell
them.
such form to such a lack
of function.

but perhaps they are
smarter than we know.
perhaps, stripped of these
crippling thoughts and
ridiculous apprehensions,
they exist in their purest
form.

perhaps they are more
human
than us all.

She Was Always Such a Simple Woman

This technology thing is new to her. When she was this kid's age, telephones weren't in every apartment and every household. There was no such thing as a cell phone, and if someone had said it, people probably would have thought it was some kind of disease that only men in white lab coats with very powerful microscopes could diagnose.

She lived though eras that these kids read about in history books. She lived through the riots of the 50's (she remembered the black and white news footage of the ruins of Detroit, smoldering and glowing on her 12-inch television screen). She lived through segregation and its final days. She lived through the Free Love movement of the 60's when LSD and marijuana were just like taking a Tylenol. She was at Columbia University when the protests began, even though she was just an innocent bystander, mesmerized by the long hair and tie dye. She lived through the end of the Vietnam War and how mistreated the veterans were who came back to the country they so unwillingly fought for. She lived through the age of the disco and Studio 54. She saw the rise and fall of the Saturday Night Fevers and Stayin' Alives. She begrudgingly welcomed in the age of brightly colored lipstick, side ponytails, and bad, electronic music. She refused to accept the age of flannel and grunge.

And now, she finds herself in the 21st century, holding onto a device that she still can't comprehend, that responds to her body when she touches it. She can't resolve the gaps in her brain from when she was small to this very moment in time. All she knows is that her husband had somehow figured it out enough to leave her a quiet, unnoticeable note on this crazy, new gadget that told her he loved her. And she wishes, in this moment, that she could have told him that she loved him when he was still alive, and she's making a promise to herself that she's going to tell her son - her precious baby boy - that she loves him each and every day. And she's going to figure out how to use a video camera and she's going to figure out how to make a voice memo so that, come the day when her son is sitting down to tell his daughter about the parents who raised and loved him so, she will be able to see them and she will be able to hear them.

The thing of it is, is that she doesn't want to be remembered for great things. She knows that she hasn't done anything great in her life thus far, at least nothing worth noting. She's another face on another body, taking up space and breathing in this air.

But, aside from it all,

she just wants to be remembered.

Birds of a Feather Stick Like Glue

it is odd how

after many months

and many days

and many hours

spent a

part,

our laughter can once again flow

as though it had never

ceased,

and our words can congeal

as though they had never

seeped away,

our lives can come together

as though they had never

been separated,

and we can find ourselves in the midst

of a friendship that needs no daily reminder(we

are perpetually hitting the snooze), but is

happy enough

and strong enough

and stable enough

to simply exist precisely

when it is

needed.

From Between the Pressed Sheets of the Moleskine

He was created at the hand of another. First a line, then a curve, then an assortment of quick movements across that plane and suddenly, he existed. Suddenly, he breathed. A marionette to the whim of the creator, he could only do what it told him to do. What it made him do. His right foot said move, it told it to stay. His lips begged to smile, it made him statuesque.

He did not argue much. In fact, he was happier to simply have been created than to not exist at all. So even when his heart wanted her, and it told him to run the other way, he did not argue. He obliged his creator; he only wanted to make it happy, even at the oblivion of his own happiness.

An entire life of this. Of being told how to live. Of being told what to want. Of being told how to behave. He could not involve himself with that one; he was not good enough. He was rough around the edges and ill-conceived from the beginning, even though he had a heart that Mother Theresa would envy. And that one, no, he was certainly not up to par. He was too faded and too vague an idea to even be considered for more than a moment. He smiled (if he was allowed) and did as he was told. He did not want to disturb the peace.

Until finally, he realized he was only an existence. What sort of pathetic "life" could he say he lived when he had not lived at all? So he beckoned that pink destroyer to the core of body. He called to it and misbehaved and did nothing as he was told. He went up when he was told to go right. He became disillusioned when he was supposed to be lackadaisical.

It had finally had enough and decided he needed to go. One swipe, then two, then three, until all that was left was the twitch of a toe, soon disposed of the way the rest of him had been.

He was quickly forgotten, replaced by another line-turned-curve. This one was to behave properly. This one would be different. But that long-lost creature still resounded in the faded mistakes, engrained in those sheets.

Why live life according to someone else?

Be who you are.

Do not be afraid.

And do not apologize.

Be.

Who Do You Think You Are Fooling?

an umbrella to

protect

from the crashing waves,

seventy feet high,

threatening with looming destruction.

there have been more foolish

constructs

that people have made in order

to keep themselves safe,

the most foolish of which

is the cold, indifferent

exoskeleton flesh

people try so hard to

conform to

when inside,

they are screaming

they are pleading

they are begging

that they only want

to

be

loved.

These Are Words I Have Said Too Much, But Always Feel

there are these moments

when we are together

when my eyes must close

and my lips must curl

and my heart must race

and my breath must shorten

and my muscles must tighten,

for if i were to feel the efficacy

of the rapture which stirs(how

it captures me so)inside of me,

my veins would no longer

be blood and sinew,

but electricity itself,

and i would have no choice

but to

tell you.

When the Metamorphosis Would Not Come, Acceptance Was the Only Answer

I am who I am.

There may be moments where I wish to be somebody else, but I cannot be anyone but me.

My hips crack if I bend over too far. Only one knuckle cracks when I attempt to release the trapped air inside of my joints. My belly bulges more than I would care for it to. My left foot is slightly bigger than my right, which makes finding comfortable shoes a little difficult. I cannot put eyeliner on the same way on each eye as my left one opens up a little wider. When I have cried and gone to sleep afterwards, I wake up with eyes that refuse to open all the way, covered with lids that fold three times instead of two. My right front tooth is chipped because the filling that was put there following a root canal broke away. My cuticles are ripped and tough and all-around unfeminine. The fingers on my left hand are calloused from my many attempts at playing the guitar.

But I am me. I am who I have come to be over these twenty-three years.

I am the girl who hid under the basement stairs, making up stories and games with imaginary friends. I am the girl who found solace in climbing every tree possible, perched in its branches, viewing the world from what seemed a wondrous height. I am the girl who saved earthworms from the dampened piles of leaves that collected at the curb as her father was raking. I am the girl who could be entertained on long car rides with a paper bag full of books, crayons, coloring books, and word games. I am the girl who needed her mother and grandmother to help her hit all of the arcade alligators as they came out of their hiding holes. I am the girl who made her father ride the log flume in Busch Gardens dozens of times, who laughed each and every time he pretended to be surprised when they suddenly plummeted to earth.

I am the girl who spent her time in the library with her friends in high school. I am the girl who had a radio show every Tuesday afternoon. I am the girl who played melancholy songs about love lost and love unrequited, followed by a song that made her dance around the room. I am the girl who went to a predominantly white-bred college located in the middle of the ghetto. I am the girl who struggled with herself and her identity for her entire life. I am the girl who cried herself to sleep because she did not know who she was or, more importantly, why she was. I am the girl who dreamed of a woman she cannot remember, but knew once. I am the girl who contemplated taking her own life because she could not reconcile all of these differences. I am the girl who found renewed hope in life and in people after staring Death in the face. I am the girl who found God through religion, only to lose Him again, then find a form of Him in another religion. I am the girl who still cannot decide what she wants to do with her life or where she wants to go. I am the girl with too many interests and too many hobbies and too short an attention span. I am the girl who cried over boys who broke her heart when she foolishly gave it to them, hoping that "this one" would be different. I am the girl who found love in a man who caught her by surprise. I am the girl who closes her eyes when she kisses this man, even though she could stare at him for days. I am the girl whose hand he takes and squeezes when they are walking. I am the girl who stares through these eyes and inhabits this body.

I am who I am.

You cannot ask me to be more. You cannot ask me to be less. You do not have to accept me for all of these things. You do not have to like me for any of these things.

But I can be no one else.

I can only be

Me.

The Cost of Independence Versus the Price of Survival

she stands,

arms as a make-shift basket, holding

an assortment of

items

that she thinks he will like:

candy bars from when he hid

behind

her dress at first meeting with

unknown adults(and sometimes

kids, too);

his favorite juice that he used

to drink gallon after gallon of

until his belly,

big and rotund like he'd swallowed

his

father's

globe, threatened to explode all

over their living room set;

English muffins;

and a bag of those dark, dark

cherries he would gnaw on,

trying to see if he could spit

the seeds into the waste bin from

five

ten

fifteen

feet away.

her lips tug into a quiet,

unnoticeable smile as she

shifts her items around in

her flesh-and-bone carrier,

unaware that he was indeed

on his way

home

to her,

only he wouldn't be cruising

through the arrival's gate at JFK,

but would be shipped to her

in a

non-descript

box, covered by a symbol of his

patriotism,

finally saying,

"Mom, I'm home."

In the Lingering Ripples of the Fourth of July

stillness.

only the rushing of the

unseen waves(or is it the

blood

in my ears?)and the

de

layed

thunders of

far-away explosions lighting

the darkness around

us.

our meandering gazes

along the horizon

catch sight of

these brilliant,

radiant

microcosms in

dozens of

far, far aways.

but i am not concerned with

the eyes enraptured

with

their own frenzied(man-made)light

ning.

even with the distractions

overhead and to my right and

to my left and behind,

i focus on him.

his features are faint in the

soft, quiet glow of the

orb above us,

but i have memorized them by

now.

i hear his breathing as it

matches the tide.

i feel his hands as they

pull me closer.

i smell his scent as it

mixes with the salt on the breeze.

i feel him there.

i feel me there.

i cannot contain the ardor

that bubbles inside of me,

and the only way it

knows

to manifest itself is in the

murmured sound

that comes from my stomach

and has no description.

he responds with his own

mumble, questioning

the intonation i

could not

control.

but how

on earth

can i speak

when he has

stolen

my very breath

away?

No Matter How Hard You Flap Your Arms, You're Bound to This Earth

crash.

shatter.

destroyed.

lifeless on the on-ramp

of some nameless,

numbered

exit

on some highway

in some city

in some state,

just like all the others.

the flickering of

red and white,

warning passersby

and those

stupid enough

to think that they can

escape their eventual fate

blind and almost bring us

to that end

sooner than we had hoped.

he was only trying to get

home.

"one more curve and one more

exit, and i will scoop my daughter

up

in my arms

and never let her go," he told himself

as the searing lights grew

larger,

closer,

until they were pressed against

his fractured body,

bruising and devastating

his existence.

i am quickly

distracted

by the displays of this

so-called "freedom"

and the drunken desire

to light any(every)thing on fire.

outstretch my arms.

make myself weight(it is an illusion)less.

where do you think you are

going? you've

got to get home.

you can't stop for him.

but don't worry.

we'll all get there someday,

too.

UP Isn't Just the Name of a Movie

it was like a

mos

a

ic

of light,

formulated by the haphazard

organization of Mother Earth's

extensions.

gazing up,

i felt the

warmth of that

Morning Star

bathing my skin,

caressing my face the way

my mother used to when i was

small.

some utterances about

the bliss

and joy

and love

i felt in that moment

attempted a faulty escape

from my lips,

but were seized and

held captive on the

brink

of freedom

at the precipice

of that plump, pink

flesh.

perhaps there was

no need

for those mumblings.

perhaps simply feeling

was enough.

When it Comes to Desert Islands, Your Brain is the Worst One of All

Cavernous is the only word I can think to describe it. It holds things. It stores them. Sometimes, when nature interferes, the things that are stored are lost or misplaced or forgotten. The more you pile things in, the further back the older things go into the abyss. It is only as big as it can be; you can't stretch rock, you know. It just doesn't work like that.

One may wander into this cavern, though it isn't something I would recommend. And if I did, there would be some kind of Surgeon General's Warning before it. Or a disclaimer of sorts. Just so I can make sure that, if one was to trip over clutter or seemingly useless things - which is almost guaranteed to happen - that person could not sue the owner of said cavern. Because there was a warning. Because that person should really look where she or he is walking so as to avoid tripping. And that extends to all parts of life, really. Watch one's feet.

Cavernous. Another -ous word to describe it would be dangerous. There are random projectiles that fly about without warning and without any kind of purpose. They may be originally attached to the point of focus, but then a piece will break off and roll to something completely different, and that something completely different will go off shooting to another part of the cavern, causing something else to move, and it will continue as such until one is merely clumped like kitty litter into a ball on the floor, covering one's neck from moving parts. You don't want to rip the jugular. I hear that's pretty much fatal.

Yes, I would call it cavernous. I would call it dangerous. I would also call it a prison.

I cannot escape it.

I cannot leave it.

I find that most of my time is spent here, even when on the brink of sleep. It somehow swallows me whole when I am not looking.

If only I could manage to turn out the light.

Basking in the Trickling Light

the night illuminates -

it(with embers

that dance like

fire

flies

in your

dark,dark

eyes)beckons me

with the afterglow

of its existence,

promising(swearing,

oh how it knows)every

thing

my heart has never(how

can it? it is only mortal)dreamed.

it

promises

warmth and

promises

summer.

phosphorescence in the

least,

something

eternal at

its best.