you are not in love with me– or you certainly don’t desire to be.
you are not in love with me– or you certainly don’t desire to be.
always i tumble into the tumult– only to find my way through.
i don’t need to take pictures– your fluid image emblazoned in my mind feet gliding above the sand hands blossoming a golden lotus. this seamless stretch of time away from existing structures– free to explore new contours find new lines in the curves of our faces. a deepening– realizing– acknowledging of what is and …
there are poems in my bones words woven through and around the sinews of my muscles– verbose tendons and loquacious ligaments. phrases which will their way to my mind– narrating an unfolding pathway– letters, lit up like lamp posts along a winding stretch familiar monuments, comforting sentiments, breeding ease– an allowance; cultivating breath …
what happens when you take away your reaction? is there nothing left?
there’s no mystery to your magic– it is felt by all those you touch.
i’m vastly more pro- ductive when i’m making up my own dirty rules.
the unguarded pleasure of your unfettered love granted in fits and spurts– boundaries demolished and resurrected in the span of a single breath– shadows hovering and descending this infinite perspective that has always been patiently waiting for my prying, stubborn eyes and willful, unrelenting mind. An existence within emotion– dancing feelings, tidal waves …
did you ever talk to me about the we that you believed could be? or did i hear it underneath your hidden thoughts wrapped between your words?
the spaciousness of my home when i alone am here– is staggering.
the edges of myself 