A Library of Reminders
All words are splintered,
even at times broken.
Trace the spine of words,
gently along their spider-like cracks.
Thoughts like old tomes,
crumble to so much dust when touched.
Asphyxiate on the dust of memory.
Past is what was,
turn the page to what will be.
Treasure and keep safe what has made you,
love and desire what has yet to.
He Never Did Learn to Swim
Where she was once his torrid river,
she now has become his dam.
With a pocket full of words like rocks,
he'd sink like a stone within her.
it would still only be but a small sacrificial death.
He once tried to build a home, each brick representative of a single day, its mortar the dreams of the inhabitants. The structure loomed high above him, towering, almost sinister as its shadow fell down. After years upon years of careful building, it was with trembling hands that he pushed at the foundation to watched it crumble in a day. The reasons so miniscule but seemingly just to him. No windows, no doors, just a boy playing in the rubble he created. People passed along the road beside him, helped him to build smaller walls from time to time, but the mortar they supplied wasn't strong enough to sustain the weight of his own dream.
Give the girl a match
I no longer wrap myself in a love
like I would a treasured and familiar coat;
a thicker skin against the elements.
(isn't that losing, she said?)
Breathing in the warmth of hope,
breathing out gelid unfulfilled thoughts;
fantasies trapped then dissipating in a single exhale.
(isn't that life, she said?)
Tiny fires built to fend off a chill
all the while the skin craves
savage bonfires to burn it away.
(isn't that sex, she said?)
I have dropped words
ever so elegantly, like matches
at your feet.
(isn't that longing, she said?)
Purification by fire
Fuel with one hand, douse with another
(isn't that love and fear, she said?)
A Shred of a Story
It was you who stood there before me, letting my words trickle and drip from your fingertips.
Seeping definitions. Swallowed up by an uneven, creaky, indifferent floor.
It was you who smeared your own words across your supple lips before kissing them deeply into me.
I read the story you wrote a thousand times. Each word becoming branded upon my lips forever more.
I Have Counted
I have counted nineteen
steps away from you
I have counted eighteen, seventeen, sixteen
passed on chances
beats of my heart
leaves on a tree
cars hurrying by
people in passing
I have counted
on the strings and strengths of a strangers heart.
Is That Man Half Full or Half Empty?
There was once talk of a man that tried to pour himself so lavishly into a vessel that would seemingly never change.
He was a fool to think it might, they all said.
But he dreamed differently.
But he believed differently.
Outside this dream and belief, the world continued indifferently.
He drained himself away.
Because he dreamed differently.
Because he believed differently.
Because he loved her differently.
Words set my home alight
Let them all settle in,
the things in which you have no control over.
Let the future come to again rest in day after day of so many todays.
Let home burn and smolder to the ground
and when they inevitably come 'round to ask what happened,
hide the matches and say that it was all an accident of words.
I heard it once said that a heart makes for an uncertain compass,
just like flesh and bone make for an unreliable home.