I was an old book,
A dusty paperback
With a simple story,
And despite all the others
With their colored covers,
She chose to read me.


She keeps his feather on her shelf
And her thoughts inside her head.
He buys another pack of smokes,
Says he’ll sleep when he is dead.

They spiral in each other’s minds
Like coffee cream when poured just right,
Or stormy clouds on sleepless nights
Spent writing songs by candlelight.

She wonders about time and age;
He wonders of it too.
He scribbles words on all the page;
She hopes to read it soon.


Someone is knocking on the door. “Who is it,” you ask. There is no response. You look through the peep hole. It’s a man, as far you can tell from his stature, but you can not see his face. “Can I help you?” No response. He simply knocks again.

The Sea

Like the moon,
Your smile mirrors all the ones I give
To garner it’s attention,
And your laughter spills out,
Echoing all the words I said before it.
And just as the waves crash
And splash beneath my feet,
Your eyes and my eyes meet.

The Chase

I stare at my shoes and count the laces.
I run my fingers through my graying hair.

My legs are numb.
How long – how far – have I been running? 

I lose track.
Birds begin to sing to me their songs of love.

It’s morning now.
The sun starts its journey across the sky, maybe for the last time, or the first.

The colors,
Oh, the colors!
They tickle my skin like your hair in a gentle breeze.

I look down again.
My feet are itching to keep going,
And so I do.

Darling, I Think We Had it All Wrong

Darling, I think we had it all wrong.
I was neither the boat, nor you the waves.
You are the sails of many ships,
And I the wind.
You are not a tear upon a cheek
That falls upon your dress,
But a storm to wash it clean,
And I the seam.
I was not some stone meant to break bones,
But a pebble in the mud
That you oh-so-joyfully picked out
To place inside your pocket.
You are a keepsake worthy of keeping safe,
A captain of the clouds,
And I just the boy by the sea,
Praying you may sail shoreside.
Darling, I think we had it all wrong.

Looking Back, Thinking

I remember the winter’s cold on my bare ankles as I sat on the deck in my joggers smoking cigarettes. I always loved watching my breath float away in the dead air, the way the smoke wrapped itself around my fingertips like one lover on another. I’d wear my favorite flannels and feel their touch on my sensitive skin, warming me like a blanket all over. I read books by the little Christmas lights on the porch. 

It’s grown warmer now, beyond spring, into summer, and inching ever-so-slowly back into fall. The heat makes my shirts stick to my back, my arms feel heavy, my hair fray. I can only hope that with the cold comes the beauty of the way I felt before, my body lifting from the ground I was rooted in and finding some new place amongst the stars. 

I found myself thinking again, perhaps about things that could’ve been, or maybe things to come. Good things happen to those who wait, they say. I care so deeply that I find myself in these pits of thought, hiding myself even from those who care the most about my well being.

When I finally let them pull me out, I can’t find the reason I tried to deprive them of me in the first place. Then I realize that I’m alright, I’m fine, I’m okay, and that’s okay.

Fall is coming soon, and winter shortly thereafter. I hope to see snow, feel the cold on my fingertips, maybe watch the trees slowly bend from their icy burdens. I want to drive my car in the quiet, listen to the birds that stuck around to sing to me. I want to dress in my favorite clothes, drink coffee with my favorite people, tell them what they mean to me. I want to be me again.