Lateral growth

Buried in spent silk, resting, pausing, perched
the final unfurling 
wealthy wings pulling, up, out, 
and airborne 
going for that spreading 
faraway 
ground of twitchy 
anticipation, 
foreign conversation, and socks-severing 
scenery only I can 
take all 
in, breathe,
love and live,
someday 
die in; figure out as I go the meantime 

It has to be nearly soon.

Hey, New Year, save something special for me. Nothing less than my European dream, if you please. Save that date for me now. Cheers.

change up the pace and start moving. get one foot in front of the other. but don't give chase to that shiny golden thing. it follows you.

'cause on one day it will be over. and even the thunder may bring the sound of the voice you won't too soon let go of. so let it rain. and pass.

and then you'll just hear the music. then see beauty before you. then find love.



so don't be late.

unease amid apparent bliss

a secret feeling that maybe this is just an extended spur of the moment, a prolonged amazement of something un-amazing although new, something that will lose glitter, shed off the shiny wrapping paper, and unmask the unremarkable that all along hid poorly beneath black kohl and the occasional mousse blush.

a shadow of you is not you

the actual irrecoverable thing about it is, you've been taken out of the position where you can do anything about it. someone else is doing a better job now. and the most you have on that person is a faint, faint resemblance that looks nothing like you.

saying something that might come out too sincere more often than not results in awkward but i want to never apologize for something that i meant...and yet the whole world is built around "avoid awkward" ---one of the WHY-shaped craters in my mind.

i'm feeling small right now...so.

the loneliest feeling is when you realize you don't have someone...and others around you are snuggled safe against the love of their lives. the bitter thing about it is not that there's no one to love, but that you don't know who you want to love. a no brainer for some.
for some.

Volume on low

On these Premium-and-Light-on-the-streets nights, the heart opens and uses the only voice it knows...but no one wants to listen. Ultimately, the price of being different is meriting less of what is normally freely given to everyone else. It's not the whiny quality, or the awkward, halting, stuttering delivery...it's that amorphous, difficult mass the syllables had fumbled over.

Maybe my means only comes up to where my pen begins.

They are beautiful, lucid dreams.

Danger. To not see it at first glance is the first grave, ensnaring step; to ignore the warning and keep on walking is entwining inextricably with peril. The fact that you know such men exist is no guarantee of avoiding the trap, of treading beneath the umbrella of safety. The biggest treachery lies in being self-assured that you will not become his prey.

I have entered the dungeon, where no walls are real, where the only certainties are lies. In the darkness I grope, my eyes closed and blinded with the wonderful promises of the possibilities he can weave, extracting hope, feeding desires. I grip his hand, happily indulging in the illusions, when all the while I am stumbling within his crooked hallways, unperceptive of the bruises on knees and elbows, unaware of the indescribable muck gummed to my ankles.

A lot has happened in such a short span of time and

I am still unable to sit these thoughts gathered around my table in their proper order. There are people who I need to see clearest in my head, yet seem to cloak themselves in a foggy blur, or I am trying to look over a tall, broad shoulder behind which is...Him, the looming grayness of cold, wet, ambiguous temperament, is the least who needs the glimmer of words that I can’t find beneath the dust, pile of dirty clothes, and slapdash clutter of my disorganized existence. His head is turned away, but I am sure his visible ear is not ready for an earplug of my sound.

These days, I am mostly shuffling from one point to the next, no time to slow down, too hurried to get in a decent thought. The flurry of my today life is probably one bad decision to the next – we will not know soon enough. I am at the mercy of my pretty active limbic, and my body hesitantly follows too late for my brain’s slow-to-form protests.

Some mornings, I wake up to feel my nakedness, and it’s alright, even if a red towel is insufficient to ward off the morning and other shivers. It’s alright, and yet the descent of heavy reality makes me long for the solitude wherein which I can always trust myself to deal with it better, much better than when a dark body lies so closely beside and beneath, breathing hugely slowly through lips that, when they find their aim, the swiftness electrifies to the hair.

flowers and starlight

It is light and consequential warmth that is attractive.

But try as we might to shine, there are just those of us

who dwell in places where the shadows are taller than the sun.

Somehow, we will always emit a cooler fire, of desires spurned,

of feelings unreturned. While it is we who make the bigger

effort, go out the longer way, it is lightness and effortlessness

that will be our doom. The absence of trying, the apparently

natural always seems to be perennially beautiful.  Anything else

is overlooked in rejection.

But then there are those who take fondly to the dark, a special

attraction towards the uncommon. Not everyone was after all born

with flowers in their hair. Some were made to hold starlight in their

eyes. There are those who walk nimbly in shadow, where birds 

and flowers close their eyes or otherwise grope and

fumble. Adventurers dare to venture into the night, and it

is often they who discover the secret beauties that shelter in

its folds. For not everyone knew to bask in light. Some of us have to be

discovered, uncovered, and revered all in the dark. It is not for everyone.

But it is for some ones.

written on paper 06/18/2008

in your next life, then series - 3

The last brick fell between us when you dropped your words like goodbye, upping the blue in your child-eyes and plunging my heart to my feet. It felt like we lost that hole of opportunity just enough to lose our heads in a kiss and our hands to reach places. My dreams leave to explore other potentials and my mind fills with just you.

With that final brick, the feeble illusion of freedom shatters and we find our grips tight around the bars of time between us, driven deep into the years before I heard your body speak. What I would give now to own your eyes and cross the breadth of your shoulders to wherer your hair sways to the strength in your arms. Even now I risk to learn the shapes and planes where the eyes are closed and the mouths are caves. But when time does the masonry, iron is steadfast and bricks will harden in the mortar.

in your next life, then series - 2

I am Atlas and the Earth is my loss
for your gentle eyes are not mine
And I pull the moon without you
My mind cannot fathom sometimes
the nearness of your shoulders
or the firmness of your chest
as it fleets from my back
I could only whine with my eyes
what my heart might put in my mouth
To hurl against your ear
A smile is but my weak consolation
I'm not in love with your lips
but the smell they give you
spirals up my helpless nose and if
I had no body, you would hold my soul
as my mind holds them now
so intimately crushing against my own
Though these dreams make me foolish
I wait like a clown for your next life
where I would be yours and time
becomes our best friend

in your next life, then series - 1

The deadbolts of your words
And the aching gentleness of your eyes
Feel not unlike regret
Though lamentable that the first
Real emotion between us
is sadness, of chances flying by like arrows
Not taken because time did not permit us
I am still glad
however remotely or less than you
or I would have liked
I feel the pull of the Earth on
my heavy loss
but just give me your gentle eyes
and let me devour the breadth of your shoulders
and hear your broad chest and powerful height
for each day that I am in
love with you
You can go home without me
just come back at the hour
with the sun and until my heart is whole
come to me when your next life has begun

pieces in my sleeve

i've been tucking in little pieces of my heart in my sleeve, and now i pull them out even if i bleed. you are too much like the rest of them, and i was blind. or maybe i just did not want to see beyond smile and eyes that always cost me, and not just with you. and though fooled, even now with just one gentle word i cave in, waiting to die again.

i am an i

they'd like me to come to them, keep me at arm's length...perhaps to own, to add another lump to the facelessness. but i'd like to keep my uniqueness, thank you, not subject to the tumultuous sea of emotions and thoughts that will crash around my ears. no thanks. i'm me, i don't want to be your padding while you are snug in the heart of it all.

slowing to a stop

I'm going sane. coming out of danger, finally.

the dawning

fear creeping in, mouth slightly agape, pale face, tight chest, eyes wide, the threat of pinpricks behind them, trembling in my knees, a hollow i cannot swallow, the dissolution of resolve

and falling.

A frog in my head

i save tons of various things that catch my eye, touch my heart, and grab my attention. i save to not forget. but they pile up anyway, gathering digital, virtual, and actual dust.


sometimes, there is one thing screaming at me in my mind and that is to smack you awake to the reality that i only want to be a stupid naive princess waiting to be rescued by some fumbling knight smart enough to recognize what it is that's been keeping my heart beyond your reach. but, like the princess, i'm just stupid, and, like the knight, you're just fumbling.


if i long for it this much and for all this time, i'm willing to believe that traveling europe is my personal legend.


i want to decorate your body with a richly ornamented sword, just so i could level the playing field and get back at you for all the heavy throbbing things that force my eyes to expel diamonds and poke at my heart to produce a million shiny pointed rubies.

chugging down to your happy place (the best of luck)

this distant silence, that nonchalance even now, feels so much like the fine knives of goodbye. i am always competing with your golden love and the intoxication of being with your friends, even when i am at the front step of a new door and our end.