The breeze is calling.
Strong waves sing my name.
I hear it, the sound of a thousand voices.
Trying to lull me, trying to call.
The salty wind caresses my body.
Closer, closer I move toward the shoreline.
Tiny pebbles, young ***** skitter between my feet.
The coolness of the sea races through my veins.
I start melting.
Slowly, I turn into a puddle at my feet.
Where I once stood, there is only void.
***** eat me.
Sea gulls fly above me.
The waves rush to and fro.
The breeze continues to call.

the letter said
"yours forever and ever and ever,
Alex"

your eyes said
"you are the lens through which I see everything"

that is significant
to know that I have gathered
(like raspberries in a basket)
that many portions of

your heart

said I can unzip the veins
and slip quietly into its chamber
whenever it rains
(a snug little sleeping bag for my loneliness)

a soul is a living, breathing thing,
always growing back

(when the rains are over,
there will be more raspberries
you will offer them to me)

come May,

"you'll have all that I can possibly give,
forever."

I feel all kinds of guilty
When I think of those who never got to cry
Those children who weren't so
And know my envy

For in all things I see
Nothing hurts more than
Feeling the child in my mind's womb
Kicking against me

I'm not fond of jealousy
But I think it would be better to know
That you never got to be safe
And you can't miss what you couldn't be

Fear would lose its plea
For it is your mother
And you know it better than pleasure
Each smile is a new land to see

Clever is not poetry.
It's readable.
It's admirable.
Sometimes, memorable.
It's clever.
A word game.
Poetry is not a game.
No winners.
No losers.
Not even
A draw.