If I come home after a certain time
I still stumble automatically
(out of habit)
I still fumble with my key in the lock
I still stagger up the stairs
I still fall asleep in my clothes
I still wonder where you are
There's Time To Be Alone Once I'm DeadI've never been more up for a long distance relationship than I am right now.
I don't know if that's because
it allows me to keep you
at eight hundred thousand arms' lengths,
or whether it's because it rationalizes me
turning down every chance of happiness I find
closer to home,
or whether it's just because
I'm in love with an idea
whose reality I don't have
to deal with until October.
Or whether it's because I actually found someone who's worth waiting for.
Whatever the reasons,
I've never really been one for reality checks,
and I've never been more up for a long distance relationship than I am right now.
Give Me Five YearsGive me five years to travel the world and then I'm yours.
Five years to grow;
get the wanderlust
out of my system
and learn how not
to want to be
My love will be all the better for it,
Give me five years,
and I will try to give you forever.
AliensYou told me once that your passion was for travel,
although you've never left the south of the country you were born in.
But I have a passion for passions
and collecting experiences
in compartments in my head marked 'adventure'.
So let's travel the world, you and me,
and turn two dreams into a living, breathing reality.
Making SenseIt's easy
(when they're not there)
to make somebody into the person you want them to be.
to fill gaps in language
with what you want to hear.
It's very, very difficult to walk away.
Surrounded By Dry LandIt is not mountains or cities that you will find in her heart,
but the deep, dark, depths of the ocean.
Her first language is temptation;
she speaks it fluidly,
but she never can be won
for her heart belongs to the tides.
Many have tried;
but no lover's arms can compete
with the swell
that washes her clean, clean, clean.
Dirt can be rinsed out,
but stains remain
that pull her down
to the only place
where she has ever felt
Thoughts On LeavingThings that I am afraid of:
Talking to people I don't know,
Falling in love.
(Doing all of the above at the same time.)
The Un-TitledThey work in cafes.
They work in bars.
They work in schools
and clean lecture hall floors.
They scrub tables.
They are adding experiences to the internal data bank.
They are quietly subversive.
They are counting change.
if they appear a little vacant,
for their minds are not on
(Though they will serve yours with a smile.)
They work in cafes.
They work in bars.
They are waiting.
A New CatOur neighborhood stray is dead. I know this
because there is a black cat here I've never seen.
This cat is not the black splotch covered canvas stray
that clawed up and down my arm last winter
when I mistakenly tried to wrap it in a blanket
for warmth. This cat does not have the matted
fur that the stray did, does not deliberately stretch
out in front of my car tires the way the stray did
right before I had to leave for work, does not
chase lizards in the grass like the stray. This is not
the stray that aggressively meowed at me
when he wanted affection, nor is it the stray
that climbed our fence to try catching birds.
I'm certain this new cat must be lost, or else
looking for that same blotched canvas stray
that had become part of his family, too.
Once Bitten, Twice ShyWhen you kissed me, I believed,
for a splinter of a moment, I did.
When you snapped your teeth shut
around my tongue,
when you tugged your head back
and rammed my shoulders
with the heels of your hands to jolt us apart
when you clicked
those crimson stubs closed again
over the vulnerable chunk of meat
I'd foolishly granted you access to -
when you did all of this
biting through tendon and taste buds
until finally you got what I wanted in the first place,
me spilling my heart to you,
all over your precious white rug,
but I knew, before my heart cracked
trying to pump air to my disorientated thoughts,
I knew I shouldn't have said anything at all.
And in this dark harvest of season
My life has completely lost reason,
For which or against to decide.
All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tide
In sadness and in kindness
In light and in darkness.
In a boat made of hope
I shall sail to tomorrow,
In a winding hurricane
Made of treachery and sorrow.
There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...
Piercing, slashing though my head.
Starting somewhere in heaven,
Ending somewhere in hell.
Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.
Are the armies within.
In my head they are all thrashing.
On the heaven's and hell's whim.
To be light or to be darkness.
A perpetual array.
It's not merely my choice,
But the choice of the way.
It's an option of the voice,
It's a thin line of gray.
Is it a choice forced by fate,
Is it a pre-set time and date?
Or a choice to which I myself sway?
But here's our story anyway .
"Nothing that I do will matter.
As all things will merely shatter!"
All my hopes thus darkness scatter,
As it shoves me a decree.
As it si
Kings of SummerThey weave flower stems into crowns
because even though they know
that although all things will come to pass
there is beauty to be stripped from the now.
They let the weeds scratch
tattoos into their flesh as they braid,
because its better to feel the pain
than to let go completely.
They let soil turn fingerbed to flowerbed
because being a vehicle for beauty
is better than being nothing at all to it
and even corpses give of themselves to the roses.
They give themselves up to the earth
to nourish an ephemeral beauty
because they haven't yet noticed
that they are themselves the beautiful they seek.
and when we kiss,
he says it
leaves him breathless,
is just two awkward kids
reminding each other to breathe,
that's all you need.
Not My Kind of Fairy TaleDon't give me the Knight
Whose armor shines so bright.
Give me the Knight,
Whose armor is dull and broken.
Whose horse is weary,
Whose heart is heavy.
Give me the Knight who looks at the dragon with pity,
For that dragon has done nothing,
And is just as imprisoned as the princess he guards.
Don't give me a princess who only wishes to be saved,
By that Knight whose armor shines so bright.
Give me the princess who wishes to escape yes,
But wants to free the dragon,
Who does not wish to marry her savior--
Nay, give me the princess who wants to explore,
Who wants to live and to learn.
For the years of imprisonment only made her yearn,
Not for the Knight whose armor shines bright,
But to see the world and live in the light.
Do not give me the evil dragon,
Whose soul purpose is to give that bright Knight something to fight.
No, give me the dragon who is weary,
Who longs for the freedom of the sky,
Whose leg is burdened with chains,
And whose heart aches for the princess he must guard,
She keeps magic in her pockets
tied to the strings of red woolen mittens
and hidden deep in tiny shells -
polished like sea glass
the soft burr of color closing over her eyes
as she gazes out at the dawn
creeping coral and rose over the garden gate
while the curl of fragrant tea steeps the morning into something ripe.
She is a trickster and spins gold
out of your bad dreams
and secrets she keeps for you
hidden in a garden that only blooms at midnight
where she tells you stories of dragons
and feeds you oranges and chocolate
laid out on lace, and china plates
collected from sandmen and angels
who got caught in the rain and lost their way
coming home from the stars.
She gathers your wishes in her apron
and stores them in a cedar chest -
wood fragrant from smoke and rain
the heady scent of lingering autumn -
worn in the soft hollow over her heart,
knowing their worth is more than kingdoms
or legends invented by princes and seers,
tracing your childhood on their fragile edges.
I think of youAs suns set afar and mountains flame
And eagles, turning, turn to fire
Ash cold, alone I lie
And think of you.