Sometimes,
All I wish to do,
Is put what's between us
Into prose.

But sometimes,
It's too ******* special
For words to come close to,
Or to share.

It's raining outside. Of course
It's raining outside, it always
Rains here.

The drops rasp on the skylight;
They streak down the windows,
Clinging onto
               the glass, praying not to hit
                              the ground.

Hitting on the glass, the ticky-tack
Drip-drop pitter-patter paradiddle
Resounds in my mind.

I hear it, the rain, but not the rain.
I hear it, your voice.

The way you laugh, your rises and
falls, your tiny snorts, your aghast
gasps and sounds of speech.

Your lips parting and pursing, your
Tongue weaving a song, breath
Sounding and resounding
               with the rise and fall of your
                              chest, heavy with tender love.

The deep gray refracted in the water
Is so friendly, so inviting, when it
Speaks with your gentle voice.

It's raining outside, and I would bet
It's raining on you too. Maybe even,
The whispers in the rain,

Sound like me
to you.

Train cars clack by me on tracks,
A steady rhythm
Each one a crashing indecision.

I'd like to ride up on those cars,
With a backpack
And my one special jazzy guitar;

I want to live like the homeless do,
See the world;
Gain amazing outside experience.

But that's a little out there, eh,
Lets get back
To something better:

I want to end up with this one girl,
A Kindergarten teacher
Waking up to her every morning.

I want to be something like a writer,
Something worth life
Not just problems and equations:

I love to read and process words with
Her head resting
Softly, safely, in my lap.

But I'm tied down by deep blue veins,
Needles sticking out;
Tied down by pills taken all the time. . .

I don't want to rely on medications just
To simply live,
To have them be the death of me.

I want to live the life I want, and not worry
About just living.

His card opens and closes, singing
Happy Birthday to him in the
Other room. He's six today.

I walk over to him, as he sits
In the darkness;
The hanging air as black as his skin.
I sit next to him in a hug:
"What's up kiddo?"
He replies with, "I like the singing"
But underneath the words, all
I hear is his voice from days ago,
"I don't like my skin. It makes me --

unloveable."

"I like the singing too, how about
We go play with your new Legos?"
His face lights up with a brightness
Only his dark tone could contain.
"Let's do it big brother!"
I tell him I love him.
I tell him I think he's beautiful.

His six short years, filled with more
Pain than I'll ever know.

I'm just glad he's mine.

This house is haunted.
Not like black, running with blood haunted,
But like a grey tinge, a missing of something ---
Important.

The walls are dead trees,
The lights are like white lifeless faces.
The world is a colourless kind of beautiful,
The black bough the red petal faces appear on
At the metro.

This house is haunted.
Not with ghosts or spirits. Not with creaks, but silence;
Not cold shivers, but an utter lack of; Not
Full of things that shouldn't be but
Instead lacking, missing what should
Be in the space you don't occupy.

This house is haunted,
By the silence your footsteps
Don't create.

If people were like books, I think that you
Would be among the best. Not ****** life,
But instead loving like sweet honeydew.
Your brown coffee stains, ripped pages, and strife
Give you attraction; black letters give depth.
Your cover is deep brown freckle covered --
Not strained stripped blond, but color wide of breadth.
Your words are full of thoughts rediscovered,
Once old, now part of a new kind of youth.
My minds palate savours each of your words,
Every one full of grace and Christ and couth:
The sounds they make from a beautiful bird.

I am the sieve and your love is the sand
               and you'll try, oh you'll succeed,
To fill me with many deserts by your hand.

I will throw up words
made of barbs and spikes
that cut and ****, if it means
you'll stick around for just
a couple seconds longer.