The Discrepancy Between

to run the risk of being

deci

mat

ed

by the tip of your finger

means more

to

me

than all the sanctuary

i could find

within

another's

gaze.

peace is only found when not even a breath can nestle between us

from the tips of the strands sprouting from your crown

to the far reaches of your toes

to every strategically placed hair on your body

to every skin cell that i can claim

to every millimeter between one feature and another

to every purpose of that which lies beneath

i have yet to find a piece of you,

my dear,

that does not cause my knees to tremble

and my pulse to race

and my breath to collapse,

and i have yet to find a second of every day

i have been blessed enough to share with you,

my darling,

where love is not the driving force behind

every flutter of lashes

and brushing of lips.

how did i survive without you?

the weight of blood and muscle.

[Backdated to 8 February 2011]

It creeps back into my mind. It finds every crack and every interstice that may (and does) exist. It slithers and slinks so silently, so perfectly, that it could be killing me now, and I'd be none the wiser.

The loss of control is palpable. Fingertips and toes go numb as the glissading vulnerability continually constricts, rendering me useless.

Rationality begins to sound the siren. Warnings and unnamed exclamation points swirl overhead. This isn't safe. Where is the net to catch me when I fall? Did the craftsman lose the fingers needed to weave it? Were his unique modifications replaced by the stainless touch of steel?

Retreat. My god, how I retreat to the safety of the lonely, melancholy brush that has been my shelter for so long. I do not know where else to go. I do not have the strength to escape. The smell of you alone would be cruelest form of torture from so far away.

I must keep myself safe. I must protect the bloody mass that I have slowly been tearing in my hands. But you have defeated every wave of ribcage soldiers I could have rained upon you.

You terrify me with your smile and how it can unravel me so. Curled, hunched, I am paralyzed underneath the weight of who you are and who you have made me: someone willing to love.

euler's number falters in comparison

when eyes close
and ghosted fingers
trace over goose-bumped skin,

when unconscious
states coax heavy lids
and whispers swirl,

when forms collide
and diaphragms strike in
rhythm with each other,

when fingers divide and conquer
delicate strands of hair,
brushed back from peering globes,

there is no other,
both in truth and in idea,
whose fingers touch,
and whose voice beguiles,
and whose skin delights,

quite like yours,
oh, half to my half
and piece to my piece.

it has always been you.

it will always

be you.

and suddenly i am galvanized into fear

self-confidence offended,

reassurance dissolved.

your tongue, your eyes,

your hands,

chisels to the stone

upon which i've come to

rely.

hundreds of thousands

of minutes spent

building,

protecting,

guarding,

undone in a matter of

moments,

the contact of lips,

the brushing of skin.

you have undone

all that

i have worked so hard

to temper.

This is the Only Escape

oblivious.

a screaming siren adjacent to ear

would barely grasp my attention.

but even i can see the unadulterated beauty

which pulls like magnets to a compass

in you.

there are others far more perceptive,

with bright eyes full of wonder,

drinking in all they could possibly discover.

you cannot stay blind

forever.

It Cannot Be Left Alone

it must be suppressed

before it will(and it will)

consume.

but how does one unhinge

a jaw and swallow it whole

if one was not fortunate enough

to have been born a snake?

A Reflection on the Remaining Fragments of a Recovering Psyche

i. how?

this exoskeleton has grown so rigid,

so impossibly stubborn that it can not be maneuvered!

suffocation(and therefore death;

it

typically,naturally follows)is imminent.

we've no choice now

but to wait

for the darkness.

ii. and then?

cracking,along the spine.

wallpaperskin begins to peel,to curl

away from the soft pink underneath.

a wiggling finger,a vibrating toe.

darkness has not yet

won.

iii. something like?

rejuvenation. rekindling.

arduous symphonies sing of the

rediscovered tombs

from days past,

glorify the freedom felt and

understood from

sarcophagi which were too small for

the most compact of

bodies.

iv. but after?

a touch. a kiss. a flittering

of lashes against

dewey skin.

like enzymes and substrates,

locking and keying,

exhausted bodies collapse

onto one another,

fueled and masked by the

laborious breathing

of lungs and diaphragm

grappling desperately for oxygen.

v. and all for?

a moment.

that moment.

unification, completeness.

press closer, harder,

but to no avail,

for even "together"

is never quite

close enough

for me.

The Language's Last Stand

I have run out of things to say. I constantly search for the proper way to tell you all of these things, these swelling things that sit so deeply in my chest, but the end of every journey is the same. My tongue goes numb, paralyzed by the overwhelming ardor that radiates, practically poisons all of its surrounding neighbors. I am reduced to my most primitive state, grunting or "mm"-ing in a last, desperate attempt at making you understand.

I know that I am a jumble of letters, of words, of failed attempts at relaying what's inside of me. Tangled and interwoven, I have come to accept that there is simply no hope at making me orderly again. Thoughts interrupt other thoughts. Feelings dissect other feelings. I am surrounded by the seemingly hollow cross-sections of pieces belonging to a larger whole that I can no longer locate.

You make my skin want to break free from my body, wanting to leap and run and feel the wind through all of its pores. You make me want to sit in the sunlight, cocooned in the whispered secrets of the breeze. You make me want to drown in the ecstasy that is Life, leaving no joy unknown and no love untouched.

Oh, but how can I say these things to you?

How could I possibly find the words, the ways to manifest and create a concrete thing out of nothing more than the stuff that kissing-in-the-rains are made of?

I echo the sonnets and odes and words far more poetic than these in my reverberating chorus:

I

I love

I love you

Oh, how I love you so.

Answering the Unanswerable

the prospect of

articulation seems

impossible

when confronted with

an inquiry

no lexicon

could ever hope to

expound.

Baking a Nail File Into a Contraband Cake

somewhere between

gallant and pusillanimous

lies a field

which stretches from

here to pluto,

unfathomably gargantuan

and irrefutably macabre.

it bewitches and it devours.

there was a time prior

to its contemptuous existence

in which lovers could

lay contentedly within their

respective paramour's embrace,

the most pressing matters

a fracas over

a cloud's perceived visage.

but as the ozone layer inflated(or

perhaps one could argue

its deflation),this obverse

inflated,

forever hungering for

the bravery of a

suitor's

soul.

escape. flee.

love cannot be savored

if

one is bound

by fear.

It Sounded Kind of Orca-ish

low-frequency symphonies(un-listen-able

to you,to me)echo the

things i do not(willnot,cannot)say.

do they mourn or do they exalt?perhaps

joyandloss are two halves of

their whole.

mourn(jubilant)ing mammoth,

you are no match

for the crux

that

pulsatespulsatespulsates

within this chest,for

even you

are dwarfed by

this sanguine nucleus and all that it holds,

this pith i have

come to behold;but

nothing does it mean

if he is not the kindling

for

this flame.

The Shortest Distance Between Two Points Isn't Short Enough

a breath for miles.

a glance for ag(won't you

come

closer?)es.

my limbs move through

the motions

of every day necessities

;

i can brush my teeth

and apply this mask,

and , if i

c o n c e n t r a t e ,

i can be

none the wiser.

but where i am

is

where you are not,

and without you

is

without

what i want

most.

please

come close

and rectify this

glaring vacancy that

has

taken up residency

inside of this skin.

please

come

close.

(photo credit)

A Lesson on How to Make the Mind Go Mad

it will not leave.

it burrows and burrows

inside of

this dilapidated haunt,

nestling so comfortably

in the depths of my

ventricles and atriums,

reinventing itself in such

clever disguises

as it travels about the bloodstream,

finding new habitats

which it likes to call

home.

how quietly it waits.

how patiently it breathes,

methodically outstretching a hand

or some disfigured protuberance,

scarcely making contact

with its surroundings,

sending my synapses into

a frenzy.

my god,

how your very skin enraptures me

with its heady bouquet.

one taste awakens this

dark, ugly thing

from its false hibernation

as i come to

understand

that with all of my strength

and all of my might,

i must conquer this

daemon,

while still trying to comprehend

and trying to believe in

how you have

chosen

to stay.

A Reflection on the Brief History of Us

how many others

have touched the lips of a

lover,

waiting for(expecting)it

all

to

combust?

how many others

have pressed their head to

his chest,

listening for the

(inevitable?)cracking

in

his

heart?

how many others

have had heavy,

overwhelmed lids at

the feeling

of love that

swells

and

billows

from places never

to have existed

before?

how many others

have pressed their fingertips

to their lover's

skin,

electricity and

numbness

the communication between

tingling

appendages?

won't you

let me always be the

other

in your pair?;

hearts or diamonds

or spades or clubs,

whatever suit

you'd prefer.

tug on my hem,

tug on my sleeve,

wrap me up in

everything

you are(intoxicating),

and

please,

don't ever

let me go.

Grains of Sand Are Inaccurate Measurements of Time

i don't know

about the

befores,

and i can't know

about the

afters.

all i have are the

nows(this now,and

that now,and how nows).

but every now

feels like a hundred nows

for every now

that i have with you

is enough.

I Will Craft My Rebuttal

purposes are

scattered and plentiful,

tangled in

the spindling of

worker bees

and

soldier ants.

in the back room

of my skull,

i have jars full of

these purposes,

neatly labelled,

arranged according to

size

and

obligation

(starting with

the largest.

naturally).

but there is

one jar

which has not

collected dust,

whose lid has

been opened

and closed

and opened again

more times

than it had agreed to.

i clutch it close

and push it away.

it sings to me

and

scolds me.

it beckons me

and

repels me.

slowly lift its

lid,

let its voice

fill the air.

its words are

simple

and it asks

what i always

ask

and what i

always

seek:

how

on this earth

can i

convince you

to stay?

Neighborhood Watch

i ooze into places i shouldn't,

and i drip into holes

that are too deep.

fingers go into soc(electric!)kets,

tongues taste the could-be-poisonous,

toes get too close to passing motorbikes,

scarves whirl dangerously near ceiling fans.

always at the risk of kablam and fizzbang,

always friends with kerplunk and kersplat,(they

are a pair, aren't they?)i am always

on the endangered list,

the kind that sends out disclaimer flyers to

the surrounding neighborhoods:

"she may spontaneously combust!" or

"she may bring about her own demise!" or

"she may talk of beautiful things, but believe in nothing!" or,

my favorite,

"she has issues!"

but there is someone(he must know who he is)

who shoos away kerplunk and kersplat;

who makes kablam and fizzbang

just onomatopoeia-s;

who renews her hope

and renews her courage

and renews her strength

and renews her love

with every touch of his hand

and every brush of his lips.

until she has no choice(no

matter her futile attempts

at stating otherwise)but to believe him.

A Poem in Four Acts

i.

goodmorningyou, hesitant to

greet(how you put up a fight)the

waking world,

tangled in cotton protectors,

strands everywhichway,

blockading those pools i adore,

with vocal chords only

capable

of quiet(content)eruptions;

ii.

to goodafternoonyou, adventurous

and bursting through the

metaphoric(literal)walls,

absorbing the seasonal sun

and passing breeze,

toes wriggling with(in) their

unwelcome confines,

dashing forward

at the speed of something in

be

tween

lightandsound;

iii.

to goodnightyou, connecting

with the

out-there-world before

wrapping me up in everything you

are,

heating my skin with your skin(i've

good circulation),and

mingling my breath with your

breath,

until we come together in

ways only we can(only you,only me),

hesitant to leave each other's

head(how we put up a fight),as

we tangle ourselves in cotton protectors

and each other,

our vocal cho(harmonious)rds only

capable of exhausted(arduous)eruptions;

iv.

to everyyou that i can manage

to find,

and how i adore

eachandeveryone

down to the most miniscule(microscopic)cell

in this tired body

with all of my might.

A 10.0 on the Richter Scale

it's in the way

i can curl up

i n y o u,

like an old familiar story.

it's the way

you warm me

like a cup of steaming

tea,

enveloped by

chilled fingers.

it's the way

you call to me,

i the navigator

with a compass

that points

home.

it's the way

you find me

when i am lost,

tugging gently

at the laces of my

shoes to bring my

feet back down.

it's the way

i love you

when you steal my words

and steal my breath,

that i know that

no matter what the world brings

and no matter what the world steals

and no matter what the world is,

things,

you,

i,

us,

are going

to be

okay.