I can't remember the last time I looked into the mirror,
And didn't see the vague shell that I am today.
Because today, my body bleeds passion for the uninspired
My skin, shrink wrapped over hollow tree branches
That extend to the beachy shallows of my body
That not even I can see anymore
I am a withering tree who's leaves cannot grow
And roots are dry
I am the stiff wind in January that will burn your cheeks,
I am the only thing that keeps two people apart.
Yet, I will shout from corridors and mountain peaks alike,
I am fine

I want to write a poem for
the sincerity of your fingers
the small silver stream that flows
from the edges of your forehead
to the ends of your hands
the thousands of cyan workers
digging the frets with their bare members
the breath that breeds forget-me-nots
on each rhythmic exhalation

I want to write a poem for
the gentleness of your fingers
the sky that blooms within
explosion after explosion - and then
crushes and then blooms again
the thirsty animals anticipating
patiently the rain
tightly embraced

I want to write a poem for
the taste of your fingers
salt, lustered shells and metal
from carcasses of boats
-one, two, three, four, five
six, seven, eight, nine, ten
forbidden fruits
for as long as this poem holds,
my very own.

An average man is all I see,
Standing in front of this puddle made by rain,
As more people walk by in glee,
Murky, my reflection it cannot maintain,

Then you stopped by and see,
"Why is this man staring at a puddle?",
Bravely I ask "are you staring at me?",
Silent, she sat beside me in my rubble,

Say and beautify those words,
Stay and make one of two worlds,
Bravely take me away forever,
Never look back until we get older,

Who are we to make love so pretty?
In all honesty, "why did it have to be me?"
Silent, she and I both agree,
The best is here, nowhere else we'd rather be.

Who are we to make love so pretty?
Her eyes glitter of a cherry sunshine story,
That was never perfect but we both agree,
The best is here, nowhere else we'd rather be.