Sex

A woman is never more beautiful than after sex,
When her flesh is flush like the blushing cheeks of a peach
And her skin is not only hers, possessed in many ways,
The smell of her lover lingers.
A couple is never more together than after sex
When their heaving sighs catch light in wandering eyes and meet
Half way in between themselves, and wind
Together like vines or fingers.
The world is never more vast than after sex
All leveled low by the glow of passions burning on familiar horizons
And lust departs on new wings, leaving bodies
Strewn like cocoons on the branches of night.
A man will never love a woman more than after sex
Though declined or denied, The space inside widens
To make way for unspoken endearment of Self
Given for the sake of giving, wrong or right.

Adam's House

You said come, and so I came,
Down to the house where the rooms are the same
Where the walls are painted in grandfather gray
And the doors open out, in an unusual way
As the days file out, one by one.

You said come, and so I came
To see the windows draped over in shame
And the rusted-out Chevy, wheels flat in the drive
Filled up with memories, still half alive,
Of matters unsaid and undone.

You said come, and so I came,
To watch clinging vines climb and claim
The white walls of the house, to swallow and hide
The silence that grew profound when inside
The house where sunlight grows thin.

You said come, and so I came
Down to the house on the street with no name
And we stood before it, you and I
And paused for a moment while you, with a sigh,
Opened the door and invited me in.

Not-So-Independent, Part 1

"I think that I can live without you." She said. The room was empty and she tested her prose against the phantom reflection in her mirror. It remained still. She watched a finger of hair flick out in the breeze that blew through her window. It calmed her, and she continued.
"I really think that I can do this, that I can live without you. I think I can wake up tomorrow and know that I'm alone, and I think I'll be okay with that." Another breeze blew by, but the implications of her words felt far too great in the moment. Her resolve waivered and she choked on her syllables, struggling to continue.
"And I think," She said, her voice trembling, "I'll be all right."
To stop would consecrate her to him, would bind them one-sidedly. She was tired of being the tethered one, the one tied on too loose on one end. It made her sick to think that in order to defeat him, she would have to defeat their relationship, she would have to put down the ends of something she had, for so long, been trying to hold together.
"I'm so tired of fixing things." She digressed absentmindedly, her bitterness wearing through. "I'm tired of trying, and feeling like I'm the only one who is."
The skin on her forehead knit together into anger. She was very satisfied with her words, and continued.
"I'm tired of hearing you say you don't love me. And letting you say it for the sake of me loving you. Yeah, I'm tired. I'm tired of caring for you."
The words fell so effortlessly from her mouth that she was startled for a moment. Her hair struggled with a breeze for a moment.
"I'm so tired." She said, retiring from the mirror. The phantom slipped down, away from her.
"I'm so sorry." She said, a general apology. It wasn't neccessarily meant for him, nor was it not meant for him. "I'm sorry." She repeated, settling down into her bed to sleep early, as she often did on days like this when she thought of him.

When The Days Are Dark

When the days are dark, even you, my brightest star,
Are shrouded in a veil of dusk.
And even my fondest memories of you
Cannot stir the sharp bite of happiness
within me.
When the days are dark, I am a shadow moving among shadows
And the night is silk wound around the wooden corners of morning.
And even noon cannot shake it down,
Down, down, down,
Not even noon,
with it's burning sun.

Young, Intelligent, Fast Learner

The slow motions of life
Bore the unaccustomed eye
And the small pleasures
Of the day to day
Fall to the way side.
Where am I in the in-between, what shade of gray?
I am not neutral, I am the agitator.
I am in-between the in-between
And in-between me, there is a war.
Content was never a card I played well
Or so I have come to learn. Bliss, improbable
So that was never mine, either.
Discontent, it is my familiar, and becomes me well.
Discontent is the chase, it is adrenaline
Energy, all potential
A ball pausing at the top of a steep hill.
I fall well, but cannot seem
To ride it out and see it through.
And what is it? I don’t know.
The object of my discontent.
It is my mind, it is my anger
It is this masochistic tendency
To sever the deepest chords of emotions inside of me
And burn calluses onto their soft skins.
All these falls, these ups these downs,
This unaccustomed eye grows bored
With the speed of life
Or lack thereof.

A Beautiful World

She places her foot in the cradle of the swing and stands up, her study knees locking as she propels herself forward. Her hands are clasped around the tarnished chains. She watches him.
He steps over and into the sandbox made of bent, painted metal. He hunches over, his long spine curving gently. The sky is a thick blue tone, and she is convinced that every mind's concept of blue must have been born from such a sky; the green of the grass thrusts up and out towards the horizon. She watches him silently, patiently, like a gardener watching a flower bloom. Their hearts are so close. And though his back is on her, his mind is with her, and as she looks at him, she loves him, just as the shadows of whispering leaves that fall on his back.
She steps carefully down from the swing to be beside him. His kiss focuses eternity into a point in her mind. She would like to paint the moment inbetween, when his lips are pressed upon her own. An action evolved to something much more sacred than pressure.
He is a magician, and how she loves him. He makes the sky so blue, the grass so green, the heat so mild and pleasant. His trick is the beautiful world that surrounds them.
They kiss once more, a toast.
Here is to forever.

25 Days

You possess every corner of my memory now
Every hallway is washed in your scent
Have you been here
Or have I projected you
Into all the small, empty places
How small is my world
That you fill it so easily--
How great is your love
That it could so easily fill
The gaps that were once so wide--
I am consumed by your presence, and
In turn, your absence
A void twice as wide as the space you came to fill
But
You have changed these spaces
In the corners you have come to possess
You mingle with the shadows
I see, your broken silhoutte,
Like embers shaken from a fire.

So Far Across that Boulevard

So far across that Boulevard--
Are you sleeping there tonight?
I am sure that my dreams will come to visit you
On wings made of floss
And light
Stolen from vagrant stars.
Where will you lay your head--
Where will you close your eyes?
Where ever you lay yourself to rest
Rest your thoughts with me.

Jar of Flies

I see these people coming and going, coming and going, like flies on a pile of something long dead. They pause for a second, only a fragment of a moment, before winging brightly away.
Then there are the older flies, who pause to look and grow tired and decide to rest themselves on the old dead thing for just a little while and then become part of it.
What is left? Nothing, really, just a lot of empty space, crossed by the occasional jet-black of flies alighting.

Do I Love Her

The question ached ceaselessly just beneath the surface of his thoughts. Did he love her? These words were a splinter underneath the flesh of his consciousness. It was a gentle knocking at the door, a request. Did he answer? Did he know how?
Most people don't--and some never learn. In fact, most never learn, and sometimes he admitted this to himself, and it made him thrilled to feel the warm swelling of emotion in his chest when she would turn her head up to him in waking and open up her kind eyes. It filled him with wonder that he could be so alive. The way that she looked at him like he is something beautiful, not in a sense of flawlessness, but a sense of familiarity and acquiescence. It felt as if her form was meant to forever be beneath and between and entangled in his trembling, nervous arms.
And he wondered to himself how he ever managed to live before her, and tried to tell her in words far too clumsy and human to suit the mood, and she might have smiled at him or laughed but they are both on their own. There is no book by which one can read the other.
But they are happy together and as he asked her if she knew how one knows when they are in love she shook her head and silently told him they were both on the same page.
We are given one moment of reality and a virtual eternity in which to unfold it. Thus does he unfold his heart.