normal
is what you are told
it is
until
you realise
it is
not

she's married, but you're lost in between the sheets of her four poster bed
and rational words like,
stop, and,
this is a bad idea,
are far from your head.
she's married, but you're thinking you could see a future if you squint hard enough
she's married, and you are too, but more to the idea of love
not so much to the guy sitting across from you both asking you how your day was.
and there are things in this world that you simply don't touch unless you want to get burned
like poison ivy or fire
or brown haired
green eyed
fair skinned liars
just to name a few.
she's married, but her lips taste just like honeydew and
there's a little piece of her inside you and
everywhere you go
everything you do
you can feel her
i mean, really feel her
but she's married, so there's not much you can do
she's married, my love, just-
not to you.

providential. unexpected meet
love reaches in, turning the world upside down

a new energy a new understanding
a new road to travel

wonder and awe
at loves solicitude, in solitude.

loving you is like waiting for the spring,
the love that winds around my fingers

a stream that will fill with the most beautiful light.
when you open your eyes to my kisses,

i fill with the summer and the bright stars,
so chill with loneliness, leave.

i forget that the moon hangs like a
silver leaf in a sky of swallow's song,

while the rose that winter stole,
that died in my lovelorn arms,

left like the impressionist the water loved,
until all i could see was the dreams

of the water, and all i could feel was
the sleeping of the dark.

Gold seeps like marrow,
stars bruise against the void.
"Light is starving," he mutters,
"even the sun feasts on its own fire."

Frost exhales—
a slow, deliberate frostbite.
"Light is a path,"he murmurs,
"but men mistake fire for direction—"
"they burn chasing it."

Emily lingers, a moth in lace,
wings dusted in ruin.
"And yet, all paths end the same—"
"a mouthful of quiet, a bed of hush."

Vincent laughs—ochre-stained teeth,
lips split with fevered art.
"Silence is blue," he whispers,
"a drowning, gasping blue—"
"the color of voices suffocated in paint."

Ruskin presses a palm to the glass,
watching years soften like ink in water.
"No, silence is the color of old hills—"
"of books breathing dust in rooms left untouched."

Emily smirks.
"Ah, but death is an artist too—"
"it sketches men into whispers, steals them like dust in light."

Vincent exhales, trembling.
"Then let it take me in color."
"Let me vanish in thick strokes—"
"golden, breathless, eternal."

Frost watches shadows stretch long.
"Some men vanish in quieter ways—"
"no fire, no frenzy—just the hush of winter."

Ruskin traces ivy creeping over forgotten doors.
"Some men vanish like abandoned houses—"
"sinking soft into time’s arms."

Emily tilts her head, voice a half-buried secret.
"Perhaps eternity is not silence—"
"but the echo of a name no one dares to speak."

Chimney glows with doubt,
wind sweeps through the open door,
life or death—depends.

Once a daisy stood,
spring’s rays kissed the earth with light,
lotus now blooms bright.

and the songs are as hungry
as their calibers
allow.