stars are tiny holes
in Heaven's carpet
and they say that
humans are made
from the dust
that falls
through them
and can't get back home.

I used to avoid the outdoors
And confine myself to the comfort
And familiarity of inside
But you
You made the summer breeze that my hair danced with
Smell like safety
You made the background drone
Of distant traffic
Sound like comfort
Because it was covered
By our raw laughter
You made me start loving the wildflowers
Because they grew along the trail
On which we walked side by side
I fell in love with the outside
Because that's where we were
When I fell in love
With the idea of you and me

Staring at a reflection
Watching for clues
Waiting for signals
But I'm never allowed to lose
Weight
Fat
No flat stomach left
And thin hairs mar
The one you're left with
Your body protrudes underneath your
Bra-line and
It makes you want to cry
Your butts still good
But you fearfully watch the
Jiggle of your thigh

Your body is all you've ever had
Your teeth are yellow and
Your hair loves to be bad
your nose is chipped and angled
Your skin mangled with spots and
Scars
Marred
Imperfect
Only the mirror makes you smile
But photos lack the style of
'Attractiveness'

You feel you can only look like you
In person

But now you have to search for the good
You know they would have you do that.
Okay, I like the practicality of my body.
Where I have stood, there has stood
Health, a wealth of love in
Laughter lines
I love the lines of my muscles
Count my contours,
Feel I'm fine when I breath in my
Cheekbones, hate the stress filled
Frown lines
Never forget the time I
Looked and found myself

Too thin
Too tired
Too wired up
To find myself
Too injured.

Never regret
And never forget
The point I realised
At least imperfect
Allows for 'happy'

I have a scar on the bottom of my left thumb.
I got it
The day after you broke my heart the second time.
I was trying to open something with a knife
And it slipped.
It went straight in
Point first
Right at the joint between my thumb and the pad of my hand
That fleshy spot that is always stretching and wrinkling.
I was shocked at first- it went in deep
Almost two inches.
I suppose, maybe, I should have gotten stitches.
But what I did instead was pull the point out
pop
It made a small sound
Like I was unstopping a tiny bottle of wine.
In fact the hole in my hand
Remained clean and white and surprised
For a moment
Startled, I think, by its own existence.
And then it caught up to itself all at once
And bubbled up thick red blood
Faster than I expected it to.
Beads of it slid down my fingers.
Soon my hand was slick with it
Shaking
And I was still fascinated, transfixed,
Slow.
When the first drop hit the carpet
I figured I should go into the bathroom and let the tiles take the stains.
On the way there the world tilted a little
Since now I held in my cupped hand a small pool of red.
I resented my body's need for its own blood.
Its fragility.
It is so needy and so frail
And I have no patience for it.
On my knees on the smooth cold white floor
And then with my cheek pressed against it
To calm the fever of "shock"
I hated that my shell could steal my will.
I stood again in a moment
Having left a smudge on the floor
And my hand dripped
pat pat pat
Onto the tiles.
The smoothness of my own blood surprised me-
Its tendency to slip away and stand in pools.
Again I looked for a moment
And then ran my hand beneath the faucet
And marveled at the way the water was instantly crimson.
It kept running and running down the drain
And after a while I realized that it was unlikely to stop.
Lifting my now white hand
I peered at it
And there was the hole in it-
A perfect slit, deep and clean and filling up with dark sticky red fluid.
It overflowed again and I did my best to wrap it in bandages.
The bathroom looked like a ****** scene.
Who knew my hands
Held so much?
Who knew we were so easily punctured and drained?
It took a long time to heal.
I kept ripping it open by accident over and over
Because of its prime location in the crease of my hand.
It was weeks, really, before it actually did close.
And weeks more
Before it finally became less of an angry red
And more of a thick, shiny pinkish white.
It is raised.
It still hurts sometimes, even though it has been months healed.
I rather like it.
I like the gory proof of what I went through when you walked away.
It's just a small reminder,
A little white ridge and a tightness on my skin
But
Well
They say you don't know anything
Quite so well as the look of your own hands
And
I think it is appropriate that the landscape of mine
Was forever changed
When you left.

You are song,
Rain dropping on still pond.
You are sky,
I see Heaven in your eyes.
Your are peace,
A garden above the world.
Your are grace,
The gentle path of the swan.
You are knowing,
The wind that whispers alone.
You are star shine,
The dust that lights the plains.
You are vast ocean,
Mother to the Fathering atmosphere.
You are dancing light  .  .  .

You are living, breathing poetry
When I'm around you, I can't help but think in rhymes
I imagine synonyms for your style
And enjoy every minute of our times

Your touch, to me, just sparkles
Like tiny diamond rings
It flowers, blossoms, and it blooms
With every wave your passion brings

Your smile warms and cools me
Just like a secret summer night
The kind spent on back porches
Where talks last until the light

Oh, and the way you turn back and look at me
Turns me into a cliche
Because my arms and spine shiver
And my knees start to give way

Like I said, you're living poetry
Even though you can't see how
And when your poem is read you're still humble
You don't need to take a bow