Speak Up

Losing love is hard, 

but losing a muse is worse: 

silence deafens me.

Alice's Lament

You are 

the rabbit hole 

I keep 

tumbling into.

You are 

the love 

of my life, 

of every life 

I have ever known. 

But darling, 

every time 

I find you, 

I end up losing 

myself. 

Not the Sharpest Tool in the Shed

I thought I needed a sharp love, 

the kind that hurts when it is good 

and burns those that dare 

to stand too close. 

But you always knew, 

the best kind of love is gentle. 

It stretches easily from two to three, 

and never wavers during the years 

that threaten to dim the light of passion. 

The best kind of love is a gentle love, 

a whisper on the stage 

where once you screamed;

a glance across an empty room, 

now filled. 

Enough is Enough

I cannot sleep 

without you 

any longer. 

We were built 

to be one.

One thing,

breathing into 

the darkness 

that covers us.

Move closer, 

closer still, 

until all I am 

is you, 

and there is 

no place 

that we are not.

Even

Even when we sleep apart, 

you are the first thing 

on my mind 

when my eyelids burn red 

with the morning sun.

Even before my feet 

find the cold floor, 

my hands stretch lazily 

as they search for 

the warmth of your body.

And even when I 

do not find you there, 

I sigh to myself 

and still feel nothing 

but devotion. 

Six of One, Half Dozen of the Other

Three twos and two threes

it adds up the same,

Which one of us winning? 

The fun's in the game.

A constant companion 

in battle and love,

All's fair in war, 

(I just threw down my glove). 

One of us happy, 

the other is lost

Betrayal inevitable 

since these paths were crossed. 

So crown me the victor; 

just king me, my dear.

The game needs a loser- 

that's why you're here. 

Naptime

Oh, little dreamer, 

there is more truth in sleep than 

a thousand realities. 

Carseat Smiles

She finds her smiles in cars 
parked by lakes, 
abandoned old parks,
the roads nobody takes.

She searches each building 

for stairwells that sing, 

silent in melodies, 

cold railings to cling. 

She looks for fish in each puddle she crosses, 

and sometimes she looks to the sky. 

She knows fish rarely grow wings nowadays, 

but she's heard that sometimes they fly. 

Peanut Butter Moles

At night, 

I try to remember your face:

The sandpaper scratch 

of your unshaven cheek, 

the peanut butter moles 

that charted my course better 

than stars, 

the canyons 

that cratered your eyes. 

If I close my eyes, 

I can still smell you, 

but the weight of your hands 

has grown ghostly.