What may be marked as times full of
hate and inequity, of racial scorn and
social injustice, of a seeming end to
the world of green and good things,
perhaps a falling away of what each of
us hold dear in our hearts.

I honestly don't think that this
division is what will determine who
we are as people, I don't think that
the color of our skin or our political
beliefs or standpoint on religion
is what really has any bearing in
the long run on what we choose.

We all want to be accepted yes?
We all want a safe place to raise
a family and we all want to be able to
be able to provide for them?

Whatever the composition of our family,
however it is that we find loved ones,
should it not be that we are able to do
so in peace, in acceptance?

I was taught that it isn't where we
come from or what we appear to be,
but rather, the quality of who we are
that determines who we are as people.

And maybe I'm wrong, maybe I do
live in a nation that was "born of genocide
and slavery", but even if that is the truth,
I believe in the idea of who we are.

I believe in a place that may not exist,
a place where all are welcome, peoples
of all backgrounds and all colors and
all faiths, a place where it doesn't matter
who your father was, but who you are.

Let me tell you a secret that I've never told anyone before. Here is the key to deciphering my own personal Rosetta Stone.

I can only ever write about things that have the most potential to hurt me by doing so from hindsight, or placing the events into another time and place, speaking from outside of myself.

So it is that I write of you now, as the wind whispers through dunes in this lonely, though not empty place. I am writing from the deepest recesses of my heart, where it is always twilight in a desert. Looking back now, I can see what seems like irony in the way the evening progressed. You needed an uplifting spirit you said, and I came following. I spent all night trying to pull you out of a sadness that I know well, and knew that it was a futile gesture. Since then I've been trying my best to forget how it felt to dance with you in a living room, for once in my life, completely unabashed. We were both drunk by then, and of course, both emotionally compromised. I shouldn't have been surprised how easily it was that our lips found each other, but I was. After hoping to the point of giving up hope, I walked into a mirage and found you there. It doesn't really bother me as much as I thought it would, believing that the night meant nothing to you. Even so, holding you for just that short time, means everything to me. I can still taste you, smell you, feel your body in my hands, and remember exactly the shade of your gray-green eyes. The irony perhaps is that I came to you that night to try and provide comfort, and somehow, it's you who pulled me up and out of the dark. Though we have no future, I'll carry that night with me forever, and when I'm alone with myself, as I am now, those memories you gave me will be enough.

Try to tear the words from my lungs,
I have nothing to say.
Claw the flesh from my ribs
and find my chest empty.
Eyes the non color of rain drops
that give you nothing to grasp.
Come to me seeking nourishment
salvation from a ghost is not forthcoming.
I hate you for the helplessness you foster
the mute hunger of the drowning woman.
Go from me and forget my name
I have nothing else for you.

This always happens,
somehow,
someway.

I have many things that I want to say
a feeling that if only were slightly
intensified, would be able to pour out of me.

So I will have a drink, or three,
but then, for some inexplicable reason
unbeknownst to me,
my hands start to move of their own accord
and I find myself writing
things I never had any intention of saying.

Please don't look at me the way you do,
with those crystal blue eyes burning right through me.
Don't ask me about people I used to love
whenever we get drunk.

Please don't touch me when you lean close
with perfect hands that I don't think have ever harmed anything.
Don't express such tenderness to me
while thinking you were critical of yourself.

Please don't talk to me the way that you do
reminding me of the dreams that I left a long time ago.
Don't ever kiss me softly
and ask what it is that happened to me.

Please don't think that I might be the right man
for you, because I can't live up to that.
Don't let me start hoping
that meeting you wasn't an accident.

Please stop being the person I've not been looking for
and happened to stumble into.
Don't let me fall in love with you.

Eventually I'll get my **** together.
I won't be able to do it at the rate
you may want, and for that I'm sorry.

To be honest I'm just as sick of this scene as you are, maybe more.

It has a certain appeal though, a certain flavour, a cut loose and not give two flying ***** about anything taste...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cXCPaCr4pdc&spfreload;=10

And we in the Occident thin we're superior?

To say that I expected this,
somewhere deep within
is probably the only answer to be given.

A self-defeating habit,
born somewhere in the dimness
of memories left to rot.

But to have faith in something
created out of nothing
should never feel like a sin.

I Love You.....And You Love Me
That Is All that has any worth in this world.

Simon opens the door. Door to the same apartment in Lisbon. But it's somehow different when he walks through the threshold. Full of people, as it used to be on weekend nights. But these are strangers, men and women he no longer recognizes, or feels any kinship with. The bottles of wine and beer and liquor are as it used to be, along with the **** on the kitchen table and the hookah by the couch. But pistols and syringes lay open upon flat surfaces now alongside the old instruments of fun. Like a dream, people whose names he didn't know greet him like a hero as he creeps through his own kitchen. Someone hands him a joint, which he hits, tastes **** and something else which make things even more surreal, passes it back to the mass, and fights his way to a chair where the tv used to be. "Simon, Simon! Just the guy to end this stalemate! Tell us, how do you feel about this ******* they're feeding us now eh!?! More austerity measures! Let those pigs **** some more and leave less for us eh?" A magazine is casually tossed in his general direction. Simon catches it by the spine, and glances at it, trying too hard to remember the name that belongs to the face on the cover. In an attempt to not be argumentative, he vaguely agrees, "Of course there are changes to be made, we all recognize that, but it's a delicate thing. The EU charter has provisions for this, but it's not being followed here. Or anywhere else though, so we can't get ahead of ourselves. Pardon me senor, can I hit that right quick?" The hookah hose is handed, a bottle is passed, and Simon gets up out of the chair. Tara is nowhere in sight, possibly *******, possibly preaching, possibly shooting up, maybe all three. Clara is in the bathroom throwing up most likely, and I don't know why I'm here, he thinks it might be something to do with a feeble hope that what he'd been told was just exaggerated rumor. He wanders the apartment that was once so full of....something else,something he couldn't name, looking for the good that he used to feel in it. People talk at him and he responds, but he doesn't really pay much attention to their comments or his responses. He finds himself on the balcony, blessedly empty, lights a cigarette and let's his memory drift. Remembers the guitar, and the wine, and the feel of her hand when she took it from him to play. He hums the tune to himself, half as a mercy and half as a torture. He remembers the shape of her shoulder and the green of her sweater, and the sunset reflected in her eyes when she slapped him, the fire in her that he has loved since that day. The fire he has been watching die for months. "You can never love someone enough to make them love themselves, usually they end up resenting you for it anyway," says a voice from behind him. Simon, in the place his mind is now isn't even surprised, simply turns to the source of the voice, a man sitting in the far back left corner. "They may end up hating you for it even. People cling to their self-conceptions harder than anything, more so than politics or religion or love. Especially if it's good clean love. Damaging, nasty love is the kind people like her need, and will never be turned away from." It's hard to make out features in the glow cast by candles and distant city lights, but Simon can see the speaker's face is aquiline, high cheekbones and a very straight nose. Brownish short hair, light and thin body, built like a runner or a Bedouin. Simon almost asks who he his, almost responds with the usual surface garbage he's been saying to people all night. Instead, he asks the almost shadow what the **** he's talking about and, more importantly who the **** he thinks he is to presume to know that kind of crap about someone you've never met. "You know exactly what, and who I'm talking about Simon. As for presuming to know things about people I've never met, I have met Tara, and Clara, and a hundred other girls like them. And I know how those stories end." "And how do you know my name, who the hell are you and what the hell do want?" Simon responded. The almost shadow's cigarette flares as he inhales and for a second Simon can see the grey eyes of a Gael, is reminded of mists and mountains, ancient memory, understands that he's being hunted. "Lots of people know your name here. I've seen that look on your face many times, worn it myself many times, and I don't want anything from you. But you certainly want something from me, even though you don'y know it yet. It's good to finally meet you Simon. You can call me Ashenden." The voice leans forward into the light and extends his hand. As Simon takes it, he looks into the face of a predator.

As if the masks I wear for the world are anything
more than mere artifice.
Make no mistake I am no civilized intellectual,
I am no yuppie at a tech company living for machines.

My soul was old when Rome ruled the world
and beneath my person suit I am an utter
****** savage with the face of a starving jackal.

I am an uncivilized, spear-wielding force of
nature ruled by monstrous passions
born from years of torture and supplication.

Take my hand and follow me to the forest.
I'll teach you it's secrets and we'll dance
naked in the moonlight for a thousand years.

And do I not sit awake these empty nights,
thinking long thoughts and desiring to weep,
my feet and my heart urging me to get up
and go, no matter the cost or the pain,
urging me, "Go hither and live."

And yes, I did love...do love,
many things and many people,
other seekers, other wanderers,
some children of the empty places
such as I, and others perhaps prophets
or saints who do not yet know their power.

Did I not wake from a dream with sand in my shoe,
wondering if sand I had tread upon or within,
knowing that deep inside it was true;
I had never worn those shoes upon the shore
of any beach, anywhere.

I do not want this, such a calling as it is,
feeling the wind upon my face
and hearing whispers in the dark,
a presence following me,
pressing me onward.

My chest hurting from too many cigarettes,
and my heart aching from too many losses,
and my legs aching from too long going
without sitting astride a horse.

How do I begin to explain all of this
to someone new, to a soul I have no
knowledge of save drunken small talk
and the small things that we remember
we do?

Does it all return to the sound of wind
and the shaking of a tent pole,
lovers embracing in the dark,
sweet and content in togetherness,
as I ponder what next I must do?

If I had any lingering doubts about
my feelings for you, they died tonight.

And where indeed have all those slim lines
of genuine verse gone?

What has become of the Garden wrought of dreams
and a love so keen that it could barely be spoken of?

Wherefore gone the desires for quiet words
and innocent love-making?

I will tell you that they have been drowned
by the cries for justice gone so long unheard.

They have been swallowed up by the indifference
of a nation so engrossed in consumption that the world outside
our borders and within only exists on television.

But the real fact of the matter is that I am ashamed,
I am ashamed of myself most of all,
for if I truly cared as much as I say I do,
I'd have stopped writing altogether by now,
and started doing more....

I'd be reaching out to whoever would listen
to whomever I could find
to those of us that don't want to wake up one day
and realize only too late
that we are all in fact slaves.

Shutter filtered moonlight bright and clear as a flashing sword
    my surest guide over the landscape of your body.

I cannot say whether it is my hand that pivots brush and ink,
    or they that carry me along across your back.

This then is what the sages meant by formlessness:
    I am the Brush and Ink and Moonlight.

All my life I have lived
next to oceans or mountains,
and at one time both.

I have lived with people
in these these places as well,
some of them beautiful
and some made terrible.

I see my bookshelf next to my door
and I hear the waves crashing with my
window open, but it seems to
mean nothing to me anymore.

I understand now that my
essential fallacy was in thinking
that me, being broken, could
somehow heal myself by
healing others.

The realization that my
entire way of looking at life
is entirely superfluous,
may be more than I
am willing to accept.

I go to bars with the
intention of putting
assumptions behind me,
of seeing people without
the judgements laid upon
me and without the judgements
I in turn lay upon them.

But  know that it means nothing,
that all of my writing and
all of my talk about God
and Morality and the search for
Truth is merely a cover, a charade.

All I have ever been looking for,
the only thing that I have ever really
wanted more than money or talent
or prestige or power, more than
anything...is for someone to
tell me that it will one day be ok.

Thus do I gather these scattered memories
tenderly,
having been burned
having been broken
the time comes to carry them into the coming days
quietly.

A beautiful day
That at least exists in and of itself
Has no history and no needs
Can be quietly experienced
Without any sort of insecurity

I will go and sit by the pond then
Lean against my friend the Cypress tree
And allow myself to simply be here
And though that does give me peace
It's a bittersweet, half felt brush
With something totally beyond my reach

Leaving my shackles on the grass behind me
I simply want to share some small happiness
No ambition for me and no desire for possession
Just a yearning for some sort of reconciliation

I will continue as best I may
Regardless of my solitude or companionship
And yes, sometimes I am sad within
But I will not apologize for that
Or the deep-seated belief that all happiness comes with a price

If what I have been taught
And am trying to unlearn
Results in a further sadness
Then I accept the cost
Of being a naked human being

"There is a profound difference between actual, physically manifested problems and problems arising from perception. The two are almost always experienced identically, and oftentimes serve to exacerbate each other."

Do you know where I live and eat and breath, what sustains me and kills me, how and why I am what I am and also seek to be?

Bah, who wants to read that, who wants to know that, unless of course it has resonance within us all.

And yet, one piece of experience, one pen pouring holy writ, the breath of a tiny slice of one person's understanding of existence, ah now that may indeed prove worth some pondering, some meditation.

Isn't music emotion as sound, isn't poetry passion on paper, isn't what we try and communicate to each other, by any medium we can muster, a thing worthy of praise and contemplation?

For are we not all continually Transfiguring, are we not all continually following, and growing and flowing and metamorphosing, as we proceed through our lives?

For once, tonight I don't want to drink, I don't want to be hazy, I don't want to smoke a joint, or do a few lines.

I am content being sober I guess, because I feel as if I have important things to do, as if I've rediscovered some sense of purpose that has been lacking for eight years or so.

It's so strange to me, this sense of fullness, even though I am so weary, so jaded.

Winter is passing here, and as with every change of seasons, I look behind me for the reminders of where I've come from, and for courage to continue on to wherever it is that I'm going.

Getting kinda tired of running, kinda tired of remembering that Jess told me I reminded her of Tom Waits once.

It's lonely working nights here by myself, but I don't mind it much; gives me plenty of time to think, to sort things out without a bottle.

So strange, how the past can permeate us without our knowing it, bursting out of hibernation just when we thought we had gone far enough.

I guess I do still have a streak of the Romantic in me, no matter how things pan out during the course of days, and weeks, and months, and years, somehow...I'm still me.

Somewhere still lives in me the boy so full of passion and principles, he who loved without speaking, cried without accepting, and receded into the man I am now.

I woke up one day and found myself in a room
with walls covered in pieces of the soul of
the girl sleeping in my arms.

It was beautiful and terrible to behold,
just as is she, just as was the knowing
at that moment that I'm a Writer
that loves an Artist....
I'm a character in my own book
and I'm ******.

He is used to waking most
mornings, and there is nothing.
No fluttering heart,
no breathing other than his own.
It is better in a way,
knowing what to expect,
come time to meet the day.

At some point in life,
he decided that it was
easier to stop longing
for things that once
made waking something
worth looking forward to.

Those tired hopes and
those memories aching
with romantic sentimentality
never did serve any real
purpose other than to
foster eventual solitude.

Writing is all that he
allows himself now,
the only recourse back
to that ancient past
full of magic and great
soul-shattering loves.

He both loves and
hates the nothing of
these mornings,
just as he loves
and hates this fire
that has almost gone out.

I love your scars
all of them.
The obvious ones
the ones other people see
the year old wound across your middle
you showed off to me the night we met.
When I ran my hands over you
I could see the hidden ones
the deep cuts in your heart unhealed.
I tasted the passion and the copper in your kiss.
I knew even then that I'd never
get you out of my soul.

I've had a car for years
but have been riding around with
somebody else at the wheel.
Didn't have a car yesterday
and walked the 8 miles home
through midnight wind.
Halfway there I realized
that I was the one driving now.

I have now gone from this place,
this running river
this journey seeking a farce.

I shall walk no more
those tired paths
leading nowhere.

The desert has been my
companion for so long
and I do not know how to
leave her embrace.

Nor do I know
how to put your
bare shoulder behind
who I once was.

You have left signs
and messages written
in the sands, upon rocks
at the shores of those oasis
we once made love near.

Yet I cannot read them,
I cannot understand these
portents drawing me
further toward a love
that I know I am unworthy of.

Perhaps I may get up and go
body as well as spirit,
I may answer this call
felt since I was fifteen.

I shall get up and go
I shall go to where you live
that place you call home.

Your voice on the wind
A sigh in the night

Trailing fingers across my neck
The kiss of flowers

Folding into each other
The embrace of rainfall

I turn to your presence
The sound of water

That was a thought I entertained for a whole two seconds before unceremoniously throwing it into a dumpster.

One day, those who have been dismissed to the shadows will see the sun again in all it's glory.

One day, those whose origins have followed them like demons in the night, will arise and face the past as conquerors.

One day, these oceans of ignorance and fear will recede, and humanity will bridge the gap between haves and have-nots.

One day, I will not need a substance to open my mouth and speak about what I truly love.

One day, the world WILL change, and those who have been crushed beneath the weight of a thousand wailing voices will awaken.

One day, you and I will stand on the brink of a world without the need to succeed at the expense of someone else's livelihood.

One day, we all may be able to look on a new dawn and finally breath in the scent of an unbroken soul.

One day, there will be no need for Saints of Lost Causes, or children picking garbage all over the world.

One day, I will say that I love you, and in so doing, finally achieve my freedom.

I was a soldier once,
and because of the time spent in that world
I thought I knew what suffering looked like.

I thought that because I have smelled death,
  and thrown away the bodies of innocents
like so many empty fruit rinds
  that I was enured to that hole in the earth.

How wrong I was to believe that such things were
the heart of that river

  the darkest I would stare upon,

When you meet my eyes for the first time,
trying to reach you across the twelve stools between us,
I won't be expecting it at all.
I may even look away after trying so hard to make contact,
depending on how steadily and heavily I've been poisoning myself tonight.
I love playing the eye game, especially with you,
but I'm kinda rusty these days,
so you might have to be slightly aggressive in the beginning
if you want.
Eventually the curiosity of what I'm thinking will crop up,
maybe right at the beginning,
maybe when I work up the audacity to come talk to you,
maybe when you tell me to shut up and kiss you already.
Or it might be one of those rare occasions with just the right mix of ***** and testosterone when I don't second guess myself.
Regardless, eventually you'll want to know what's going on up here.
It's pretty simple really, no big mystery, even if
I don't talk about myself much in person.
To be sure, I want to know what you taste like,
how you look without make up,
under a shower,
in a bed.
I want to know what it will be like to strip clothes from your body,
as an artist must feel uncovering a work of hidden beauty,
as a madman must when he regains himself,
as Rumi must have in his garden.
Images diverge from there, with equal portions half and half,
your hand around my waist as I lift your skirt in the bathroom,
and reading by lamplight to you a chapter from Divisadero.
You're looking at me with that same appraising gaze I know so well,
and you can be **** sure I'm wondering whether you'd like me to pull your hair, the same as you wondering if I like to be bitten.
You see, there is no longer any separation for me,
between closeness, passion, or ecstasy.
When we progress to the point,
when I finally get your hint,
that I don't have to try so hard,
I've already decided whether I'll take the plunge to your soul or not.

I’m so ****** tired of feeling compelled to suffer a penalty for you falling in love with me.

You knew I was a Jackal when you first tasted me.

I don’t owe you an apology for having survived nightmares, for loving you the best I could with what I had while horrible things were happening that I couldn’t tell you about.

I’m not an imposter, or a liar or less of a man than I presented as.

I fell in love with you and I didn’t want to.

We tried to staunch the blood still flowing from each other’s wounds…without knowing that we liked the taste.

I'm tired, so tired
They look into my eyes and some
turn away
some hold their gaze.

What do they see I wonder,
what would they say
if walls between crumbled?

I'm weary of the game,
weary of throwing up my soul
in dark alleys so that the yellow men
won't know that I'm considering their offer.

Cicero was right though, **** him
all is indeed vanity and it is my lot
my cursed blessing to be able to see
through the tides of ******* nearly
hitting the high water mark.

It's an old game we play,
I the Jackal, and they the fat takers
those peddlers of ease, the green frog skin men
the flimsy platters of slot machine tokens,
the pale promise of pleasures unending
if only I sign on the dotted line,
in triplicate and also a thumbprint
and also we'll need your social plus two pieces of mail.

Whenever I get a bit too far gone they're around,
pushing their world with far better skill than
the very many dealers I've bought release from,
and yet the ultimate deal remains the same:
give us your identity, your fire, and in return
you need not suffer any longer.

It's a decent offer I guess, but they push a bit
just a bit too hard to play it off,
they always show their hand too soon and I know
that for some reason they want me more than
I want the release they have on display.

Sorry boys, I'm not the guy you're looking for.
I do have my moments, I'm a deeply broken
scarred and horribly imperfect person
not above taking bribes or stealing to survive,
lustful, greedy and wroth.

For all that you misjudge me,
thinking perhaps hatred of those who've
cut me so deeply could be useful,
failing that, hatred of myself would
perhaps be more beneficial to your plan.

Go ahead then, cut me away, turn my love to ash,
pull my once bright courage down into
the slime that brought down my grandfathers.
Do what you will and I will indeed despair,
indeed I despair even now, loveless and alone
exiled or freed I know not which.

In the end it doesn't matter,
for you are just as berift as I my enemy,
and we'll meet face to face one day
upon the shore of a distant sea
or perhaps in the darkest heart of
the great river which helped birth us.

Do your worst,
but understand
that which you do unto me
you do unto yourself
poor beloved shadow of mine.

Behold, my cup runneth over,
and I rejoice.

I was alone in the desert,
and now I have been brought home.

Those beautiful things I had thought
lost forever have been returned.

My shame hath been shown to be illusion, and my failures forgiven.

Faith I had not in the workings of
the One beyond my ken.

And yet faith I have been given,
and love, and hope, and a new life.

I rejoice in you Oh Lord, I give thanks
to you for the small things, the little proofs that you have not abandoned us.

I give thanks that You in your wisdom
have brought me to this place; that You have not despaired of me, though I have despaired much of myself and of You the Eternal.

Behold the garden I have always sought, and yet hath ever been my home; that which always liveth within me, yet I journeyed to find.

Perhaps the people who are no good at accepting things, or accepting the faults (real and imagined) of others, are that way because they're no good at accepting their own.

What shall we be to each other
and ourselves
in the years to follow?

A foolish question
without an answer
but something worth pondering.

I don't know
how to tell you this
but I will do my utmost
through the medium I know best.

I can see myself walking
footfall heavy and somber,
but no empty vista residing
within my heart any longer.

I dearly hope to travel
further with you
to seek and to find
all that we yearn for.

However it may end though,
I am content within
knowing that we will
be the better for it.

I don't know how to write about you anymore. The words that used to flow seemed so right, so beautiful.
But now there remains only a vague hope, a fleeting scent of oranges and the sea.
You are the place my Heart goes when I am broken open.
You are the Home I long for in the early morning quiet.
You are all good things to me, a symbol now of what once was fair.
No matter how I try, you always evade my Love, and my Longing.
You whisper to me in the night breeze, yet no longer reveal yourself to my tired soul. I can no longer touch you, or see you;
I can only feel you somewhere in the deserts and mountains within.
All the time I am searching, searching for you, though I do not know how I may find you.
There is no chart of your endless seas, nor is there a path to your home in the old Blue Mountains.
Here in this Garden I write for you, and my Heart........
My Heart cries for you.
Perhaps one day, you will hear it.

I still find strands of your hair on my clothes

I no longer imagine you next to me
when I lay down to sleep.

Never again will I make the mistake of thinking that someone in love with what I write is the same thing as being in love with....the rest of me.

A low roar in my ears, when I accept that I'm not the one to take away the marks left by a bad man.

Here I find myself again, low lamplight reflecting a shadow. Waiting.....waiting is all I do now. I wake up in the morning and there's nothing. Nothing but repetition, the demeaning struggle stuck on rerun. I was waiting for work to end, now I'm waiting for the gin to kick in, and soon I'll be waiting to fall asleep so that I can do it all over.

What am I doing here in this room, on this beach in a paradise, hiding out from something that I don't want to be, pretending to be someone I'm not, putting on a smile during the day and acting like everything's gonna be okay?

Justifying so much to myself because I don't want this compulsion, this need to take all of the bad things I've ever seen and use them as fuel to burn this whole world down.

What I've really been hiding from is a part of me that was born in the dark, while wandering down nearly deserted roads in the middle of the night, passing figures huddled in alleys and dying for a fix, meeting strangers on streets I've never been able to find again and wondering what it is that we're searching for.

This part of me that can hide behind eloquent revolutionary rhetoric and believes itself capable of sparking a conflagration of the poor empty masses, truly is only lost, still lost and wandering those nearly empty roads.

Once when I was younger, I caught a glimpse of what a Final Victory might be like. I had stayed up all night, wandering the empty streets and alleys of St. Augustine with two friends whose names are long forgotten. We strayed to the marina after pondering the absurdity of human existence and there, beheld a true Wonder. Just the barest taste of things to come, but an overwhelming awe. This Great Heart made of fire, bursting forth from the dark waters, an ocean of consuming majesty, such as I had never conceived. Can you imagine we, these infintesimal specks of life, being a part of this miracle, this new Day?

When you caught me compulsively washing dishes at 3am

When we agreed to tell each other if there was anyone else

When you cried in your sleep and all I could do was hold you tight

When you were still there for me after flashbacks even though you didn’t know what was happening to me

When we were so shitglued that our accents came out and our friends had no idea what the hell we were saying

When you shattered your Chanel bottle all over your bathroom and I smelled like you for days after

When I tried to cook eggs drunk and you didn’t have butter or milk and had to save them from me

When a tiny version of you found my pirate wig from Halloween

When I moved heaven and earth for you at work

When you took me to the fanciest Italian place I’ve ever eaten at

When we entered a room together people stopped and noticed

When I caught you compulsively washing dishes at 3am

When you orchestrated Thanksgiving and taught me about family

When I bought you boot socks and moleskin to heal your outrageous blisters

When you took me along with you and your daughter to look at Christmas lights, and you didn’t know what I was fleeing from

When I found you folding my laundry at midnight, and I left my heart on the couch next to you

I don't know how to tell you what's in my heart.

I don't know how to explain,
that I put my faith in you.

I don't know how to say,
that I don't want to be a hero
or a villain.

I don't have the right words,
for this feeling that I haven't felt
till I met you.

I don't understand what's happening,
this twirling around
and revisioning.

I don't have much to offer,
except my messed up heart
and the history that comes with it.

I do have a hope though,
a hope and a belief
in you.