a stranger walked past me today  
and I smelled you slivering  
through the air like incense  

then she walked on  

oblivious that you had been  
conjured from vapor and  
pushed into all my senses  

traipsing through me like  
dragons fire and spring lilac  
our beginnings and endings
in the span of my lungs  
dissolved back into  
breath and wind

She cooked with love  
but not In the way that most people  
think Of such things when they say it    
  
It wasn't that you could taste her love  
In the flavor or even that she loved to cook  
It was that there were always leftovers  
  
Sometimes that meant more of our favorites  
Like homemade pizza for breakfast on Saturday  
And sometimes it meant more meatloaf  

But what it always meant was there was room  
At the table for another chair or two or three  
That it never felt like an imposition to share a  
Meal or the warmth around the table with someone  
Who needed it and our friends stayed more than  
They left when she called “suppers ready”  
  
It meant that there was always food in the  
Fridge ready to be reheated and doled out  
to hungry Teenagers whether they belonged  
To her or not and that “no thanks” or “I'm fine”  
Just meant she moved to the next shelf  
and tried again until there was a “sure”  
  
And as the years went on it never changed  
Just the people around the table
There was always a friend or a neighbor  
Who would gladly fill those seats because  
Mom always cooked with love  
And there were always leftovers

I’ve been collecting you  
gathering up all your inkbled trinkets  
as if they were mine to collect  
as if you were whispering to me again  
the secrets of your blue-green skies  
like electric pillowtalk  
  
my soul slips like broken  
sand shards  
back  
into you  
into hazy eyed illuminations  
heartbeats rhythming through  
our pressed palms  
and you almost feel real  
  
until my eyes unsquint  
until all your splayed treasure  
has been treasured and  
I am love-lost all over

I want to be your favorite book-  
have you thumb through my pages    
make me dog-eared and worn  
fold down my corners at the parts
where you smiled or thrummed love  
and feel your fingers along my spine  

couch curled in the yellow glow of
forty-watt warmth and a heavy blanket  
open me-  
the familiar feel of your eyes  
running over my lines  
until you know me by heart  
  
an old friend that never changes  
a lover that never leaves  
your escape  
your comfort  
for as long as my pages have ink

stone rolls between my fingers like I am the earth
tumbling it beneath my soil rumbling an invocation
of shape and purpose to this tiny prayer of rock

hard dimpled-smooth skin like wings
It knows the bird dream steps of water dance
winks sideways at the sheen surface mirroring
against the wriggle of nature and fate so
that nothing snakes between shores

I whisper my opus in granite and
defy it against gravity

mountain-seed kissing across water’s horizon
aria in flight slick whizz smack of hope skimming depth
then spent sinks to rest in new shallows

impetuous ripples ring along your shore like
sapphire mischief to ebb the sand gritting
between your toes and I wait for you to
ripple through the rhythm back to me

depression feels like heartbreak at sixteen  
perhaps that’s why I always think of you  
when that unyielding squeeze starts to roll  
around my stomach like a rotting stone  

it's strange to think that of all my stories  
yours is the one that always wants to be read  
we were just sketches and outlines and isn’t  
time supposed to be the great physician

it seems timing is everything Once Love and  
ours was always perfect in the worst way  
just right to wedge you between my newborn
ribs like a thistle that sticks to my bones  
  
so I chase you like salvation  
knowing you have none to give  
and I’m always running  
in dreams

I open my ribs.  
peeling back the sinews and  
capillaries with precision.  
The crack of spreading bones,  
my chambered apparatus laid  
delicately on the table.  
  
My implement extracts its pound
onto the slab with intention,  
pulled and pressed till it's paper  
thin and bled out. Soulspeak scrawled  
in the crackling veins of my parchment.  
  
I put my machinations on display  
for onlookers, merchants  
and collectors  
but none seem to gather any interest.  
Skinpull another page  
but nothing sells  
or charms or foments.  

I pack my wares and  
toss them onto the pile of  
my dried out corpse scattered  
on the floor.  
Failure.  
Another procedure.  
Relent, repeat, cut deeper.  
And hope to find a reader.