I stare at her across the bar, between the bottles covering the worn out stained oak
varnish tarnished, wood soaked
from years
of ashed out cigarettes and spilt beers
slopped spirits from over zealous cheers
she's younger than I imagined, aged as a fine wine
her eyes locked on mine
I see the solar system, galaxies
surrounding the
pupils blacker than the abyss of the outer reaches of space
a lovely contrast to the lightness of her face
I pull up a seat beside her trying to spark a conversation
on life, nature, hopes for modern civilization or even space exploration
she says "quiet now my son, patience"
you're to focused on what you're saying
without hearing what you're conveying
her hand pressed to my heart and she said 43 beats I remember
39 when you sleep, but 84 when you're tempered
I asked her the significance
she said it's all about the difference
how my world is at peace when I am asleep
but pointless rage forces the increase
this life can go no faster
and you will know no master
so focused on breaking the mold, or shattering the plaster
when we really need the subtle hand to make the cast first
she said you see me all in your own ways
I saw her as a woman, soft eyes with a caring face
for no man knows the subtle intricacies and nuances that make living worth the fight
I met god in a bar, she walked me home in the beautiful night
we spoke of love, happiness and the pursuit  of this life...

Tastes of metal. Tastes of rust.
I take wisps of music from the air
to try to fill up the hole.
I am not whole.
I ******* own limits,
my own blossoming self-doubt.
I am afraid of learning to hate.

I want to be the answer to somebody's question.
Is life so short that love will
evade my outstretched fingertips?
Water droplets and flowers on the ground,
and peaches.
Hugs that end too soon. Can
I ask for it to stop? Can I take
a breath?

Do you draw your own lines or
watch them form around you?
Or did you not notice them at all?

I want to be someone's wispy,
wishful thought,
drifting to touch the ground,
back in the air with the wind,
I bet it would taste like
freedom.
Having no choice.
What a paradox.

There is nothing in the intricate design of the eye that tells us how we are able not only to see the world, but to look back upon it.
Is there a magical element yet unknown, somewhere deep in the vitreous humor, or hidden within the optic nerve that burns with the purpose to seek out beauty in the world?
To capture it in our gaze, to own it for a rich moment or two.
Is there some electrical impulse within this blinking vessel
that projects our delight upon the object of our affection?
We know we love, and yet how can this be so? It does not exist anywhere in our anatomy.
We know that we would risk everything for that enduring answer, seen radiating from another's eyes,
and yet, how can we grasp it and hold it tight, this invisible thread?

Where, in the gray matter and electrical streams and storms of our mind, lies our imagination?
A game of telephone from neuron to neuron sends the fleeting thought
that behind our closet door there may be another world,
where a nautilus is king, and great whales swim the cosmos, feeding on the tails of comets.
But only for a moment do we think, perhaps it is so.
Until we open the solid door, and what we believe,
because we must,
shows us the simple fact of a tidy linen closet.
We believe it, because we must.
For there is nothing in our marvelous jellyfish of a brain that tells us that the world can be
anything
and everything
we want it to be.  
And with that, the World, and all the other worlds
here, there, and in between,
smile at us,
the fleeting shimmer of light in an endless sea.

If she could go back and change anything
She would gather her courage and stand
Just half an inch taller,
And sacrifice the bits of her heart you already devoured,
For the chance to maintain her self respect.
What the hell was she thinking?
Head reeling eyes blinking,
Bound like she owed you more than
The every bit of everything she already gave you,
she made you more important than herself,
She must have momentarily forgotten she’s a
Little embodiment of humanity
Lost in love and insanity,
You are less of a man than any body
You jump at the chance
To lose your empathy, drive, your capacity
To experience your life
The “opportunity” to care for nothing.
But you were nothing less
Than selfish…
Cutting it close to a monster
You always hoped she would remember
Just know you are the mistakes that still haunt her.
She talks of all the times she should have walked
And wonders if you ever really loved her.  
You made her hurt so much harder but
Honestly shes tougher
And in the dark she doesn't cry
She often smiles, it took awhile but it doesn't matter,
you will never ever touch her
shes on fire,
the kind that turns heads and breaths laughter
and chases faster than hard liquor and starts
working  quicker than all the drugs on your brain.
Lazy attempts to numb everything.
She so much better, lighter brighter and burning hotter.
Its probably a hard thing admittedly
to be the dumb-*** that didn't want her.

She's like some kinda cute.

She’s like “comic book, best friend next door”, cute.

As if some special, specific sign of wanting without intent.

You feel comfortable and insecure all at once.

And time never seems to move slow enough.

She’s like “dime store, stained glass”, cute.

Fragile, but not gaudy, no price tag, but surely not free.

You want her, no matter how little pocket change you have.

Something tells you that of you give everything it’ll be enough.

She’s like “cat in the pet store window” cute.

Soft, with short fur, big beautiful eyes, and the sweetest purr.

She is cuddly, and warm, and in need of hugs and kisses, and love.

With every string of your heart pulled, you take her home.

She’s like “over-sized t-shirt and nothing else”, cute.

Long, skinny legs that lead to where you want to go.

Hair, also long, reaching the base of her supple yet lean backside.

You are handcuffed by your gentleman trade, and merely caress this creature.

She’s like “tattered diary, and tear stained pages” cute.

Love poems written on hands, and wrists, ankles, and knees.

A novel of noble actions printed on her frail back.

The chapters seem endless and I trace the words.

She’s like, “nothing I had ever know before” cute.

We would give a day
A part of our lives
Just to see their smiling faces
And put it on a page
For a chance to write
How we feel in an embrace
And they would smile each time
We wrote a word
The sun would be our desktop light
To illuminate verbs and such simple words
That gleam in the light of the smile

We would give a week
And press pause on a whim
Just to feel that kiss on our cheek
The speech would then end
And we would bring pens
To record the things we feel
And they would swoon which each time
Our lips chose to lock
The feeling never being erased
From the page of a smile with whim of a child
With a dream that took some time

We would give a month
A leap off a clock
Just to feel the touch our skin
To know that the rose
Is not the only thing growing
And that the feeling is mutual
And with each time we touch
It would bring inspiration
That flows through blood and brain and soul
The ink vial would be full and the blood would then rush
And invoke tears inside a word

We would give a year
A slice of our being
To make sure the feeling is oh, so right
Watch the moon pass and fade
Peaking the day to day
And feel the summer and winter pass
All for a feeling
All for a smile
All for a touch and for a kiss
So the whole world can say we gave up a day
In order to write things like this