Somber eyes
Fastened mouth
Broken fingers
As I stare out my bedroom window at the sky-
At an unidentifiable moon that seems to faintly glow behind its shadow.
Unknown to the rest of space,
Unknown to me.

Your fingers caress mine.
Our palms separated by a hair's breadth.
Our hands finally embrace each other.

They write poems to declare their love.
The negative spaces between fingers are filled out with warmth and sunlight and you.

But the hair's breadth is a canyon.
We both know your sunlight isn't tangible.
Are we holding hands?
Or ideas?

Let's see what you've got inside,
I rip you up, open wide!
Let's do some digging, fingers deep within
You think I'm done? Let's begin!

I want to learn to whistle
Like my daddy did.
I wanted to learn it since
I was a little kid
You know, you put *******
Just inside your lips.
No, not the whole fingers
Just the very tips.

With that kind of whistle
I could stop a fight
Or call a taxi to me
On a rainy night.
I could whistle while applauding
Let performers know
Whatever they were doing
I enjoyed it so.

It works well during sports
Like a referee’s call.
The way I whistle nobody
Would hear it at all.
If I had a doggie I could call him
Then I whistle really loud
And he would come running
I would be so proud.

And of course I could tell
Somebody walking by
That they were pretty hot and
They had caught my eye.
But if I try to do that now,
They have to be
Not further than a couple
Of feet from me.

You’ve heard that kind of whistle
In shows on your TV.
I wish that kind of whistle
Could come from me.
So, I wish I could whistle
Like my daddy could.
Maybe someday I will learn.
Knock on wood.

the tips of my fingers bleed
sore feet crack beneath me
there is no one holding on

iron trees
everything you love so dearly
the tips of my fingers bleed out

i am hurting
and there is no one holding on

I suppose I realised around the time
that the trees started looking like anxious fingers
searching for their little blue pills

I realised on a walk
that maybe, just maybe, love was not enough
to love

I searched for a bench to gather all the thoughts
where the trees surrounded me
in a circle of confidence and confrontation

A guzzle of wind fought through my thin layer
and the fragile but thick fingers of my friends
threatened me

I had made a hypothetical decision
that I knew I would never act upon
hoping that maybe, just maybe, love could be enough
for now

my fingers have become bored with
the quicksand of routine
they prefer to dance erotically over my typewriter
frolicking like naked ballerinas
over an ancient stage
spilling their secret thoughts
onto blank page,
after their day job
threaded together
over my lap,
or bending over to
reveal the contents
of my burlap sack

they have taken instead
to jumping over cracks
in the nothing of night
stifling the sound of silence
with assortments of clicks and clacks
punching in the perfect pitch of keys
to leave Beethoven blind
from this symphony of notes combined

and just like that at last
they have unfolded some rhyme
unachievable with ink and pencil,
without the stencil of time
dictating to work inside the lines

I'm in love the with idea of you. I can't get over it. It stays with me. It lives in me. I cannot leave it and I do not need to. Because, you see, I'm not in love with you.

I'm in love with way you make me feel. The smile you bring to my lips. The one I attempt to hide. The one no one else can see. But even if they do. What's it matter? I'm not in love with you.

I'm in love with the way you move. The way you touch your fingers to your cheek. And I may do the same. Yes I may touch your cheek, and pull you close to me. But that's okay. Because it's not as if I'm in love with you.

I'm in love with your kiss. Your lips on my lips. The way we feel together. I can't fake that. But you can. Because you're not in love with me. And that's alright. I don't mind. I'm not in love with you.

And maybe if I say it a few more times.
And maybe if I make a few more rhymes.
And maybe if I tell a few more lies.
I'll finally start to believe it.