Her name is Grace - I never did find out the last.
She stands a little over six foot - has skin like teak and a smile that laughs.
I said, "I think I'm falling in love with you," on the seventh date.
She smiled. Punched my arm, too.
Whispered, "Don't go hitting the ground, lover boy."

We hadn't even started to soar.

When snow fell, it caught in her hair like a sea of crystal, stars soaking night.
I loved the scent each strand carried, floral oils a bright nasal bite.
She thinks the world of honey and judo, and names her sister the best.
Last Monday, she stole my phone charger.
Now we can't reconnect.

All that said - and a whole lot more left private - I wish her the best.

I wish her the kindest.

Ability becomes superb, becomes aplomb,
becomes metaphysical bombs dropped,
public consciousness shot;
the crowd shakes and writhes,
the crowd beats ten thousand drums,
echoing, echoing,
"The Greatest of All Time!"

Their god is flesh, is bone,
is stone becoming a wheel,
becoming a tower: royal-
-tied, educating the masses on excellence;
lacks references,
tiger dropped in the Arctic,
king of the jungle.

Does she not dance?
Does he not skip?
Do we not each,
run, laugh, and sip,

Of the deepest drum,
of the foreign choir,
of the winter breeze,
of the Chinese lyre?

We lords of dance,
we merry gods,
we royal queens,
kings and odds.

To us I raise,
to thee I sing.
For thus I praise,
for this I bring,

Facts of life:
unchartered course;
this music many,
this music Norse.

Replete, yet not.
Unbound and sought.
A reason known.
A rhythm hot.

You'll never be white enough.
You'll never be right enough.

You'll never know the route they're taking.

Because your mother was Irish.
Because your father was mixed.

Because your grandma was Polish, to them so much ****.

This world is too kind.
This world is too cold.

This world is tinder, burnt before old.

We'll breathe poison together.
We'll breathe lies till we're cured.

We'll breathe drink like oxygen, dumber for sure.

The flowers are dead, cursed rotten in bed.
The flowers are plastic, and taste of ill lead.

The flowers are children, petals wrought poor.

This flower is tired, far from du jour.

You are not deserving of the hatred you hold;
this self-inflicted thing of barbarous intent.

Not because of some inherent goodness,
and never for what you were.
Such notions are silly. Instead,
you are, each day-
-and every hour hence,
stochastic potential:
whatever that may be.