I buried you last night.
I do not believe
you even knew my favorite color.
Were my heart not fraught
with the frailties
of the Light,
it would have been much sooner.
But I was given the spark of hope
by the Sun and the Moon,
and I put my faith in you
for far too long.
I found it in myself
to create
for you
a place like this
where my words crafted
elaborate tapestries,
reflecting the memories
that I had come to value
so dearly.
Your laugh would echo throughout
those hallowed halls,
instilling the same sense of wonderment
as it had brought upon me.
I cut precious gemstones
in the shape of you,
so that when were you
to gaze upon the ground
you would see your freckled visage
looking back,
and if you were to gaze up into the heavens,
you would find the pattern of your freckles,
illuminating the night sky like the constellations above.
It may sound strange,
but I see now that they blinded me
to the Shadow that lurked
within your heart.
That shrine
that I had constructed with every ounce
of love
of joy
of hope
that I could dare muster
has not seen your face
in quite some time.
An observation,
have you the time for it;
You told me all there was to know about you.
Your negligent, abusive father.
Your absent, narcissistic mother.
And that pitiful excuse for a partner.
Every struggle you had endured,
I knew.
But not once
did you dare ask about mine.
The day you left,
your goblet was brimming with love
that you knew you did not deserve
while mine lay empty,
not a drop to be found.
So I sealed that place,
but the Light in me
left it so that you could always return
should you have a change of heart.
The Mantle brought me here,
and as Light inverts to Shadow,
so do I.

It was blue,
did you know?

My favorite color was blue.


Love, Cosmic

Did it ever occur to you,
that the universe,
in it’s grand design,
had conspired to bring us together?

That we are drawn to one another,
like planets in orbit,
and the constellations, a chart,
from me, to you?

Is it really so hard to believe,
that maybe,
we were born from the same cluster of space dust,
and that our very atoms yearn to be together again?

If I claim to believe in anything,
it would be the stars above,

and you.

Always you.



I have heard it said
that the person you think of
when you stand in front of the ocean
is the person you are in love with,
and while I cannot argue that thought,
for I have thought of you many,
many times there,
I wonder if the inverse is true?
What if the person makes you feel as if you were there,
gazing upon the last rays of sunlight reflecting upon the sapphire surface;
I think, that too, means you are in love with that person,
as I am with you.
Your hair, a harmonious splash of sepia strands, like the waves,
crashing against your shoulders,
and your eyes, like chocolate pearls, brilliantly dazzling in the sun,
and your laugh, like the fine spray of the sea, refreshing my senses.
Women like you drown oceans, darling,
and I have no problem going under.



It’s peculiar,
this feeling you give me.
I always assumed that love was this grandiose
fancy dinners,
vests and dresses,
diamonds and pearls.
Maybe love is still about those things,
but then I met you,
and suddenly all of that changed.
For the first time, I wanted nothing more than to simply
with you.
I craved you, in the simplest and most innocent of ways.
To come over and have you in nothing but an old t-shirt,
worn out sweat pants,
and mismatched socks.
Your hair, a fantastical mess of chocolate
swirled about your lovely cheekbones,
connecting the dots of your sweet freckles,
as we watched or read whatever spoke to your soul,
and I would twirl your hair in my hands
as you fell in and out of sleep against my chest.
I wanted to make late night tampon runs,
in the chill of night,
and as we drove over to the store,
you would clutch my arm in the frigid thralls of your car.
I wanted to see you bare,
to turn the worn pages of your soul,
to read the you that you are when you are alone,
the no make-up, no effort version of you
because that is the only form that speaks the truth.
Now, I know that you aren’t supposed to look
for other people to save you,
but when I am around you,
the world becomes, like crystal,
My spirits rise, and the skies,
thick with smoke and haze,
shift to the calmest and kindest blue.
I know I’m meant to save myself,
but the honest truth,
is that with you,
I don’t have to.
So, come, my darling,
it is never too late
to begin our story,
our love,
over again.



Are you afraid of God?

I am afraid.
Of a lot of things, truthfully.
But of all the things that keep me up late at night,
none hold as much power over me
as do you.
Do not mistake me,
I do not find you scary,
though the way your eyes can bring me to my knees
I would describe as much.
I do not find you chilling,
though the way my heart would freeze
when you would call my name,
would be fitting.
What roots me in sheer terror
is the uncertainty in you.
I am afraid that the 2 a.m. phone calls
made in tears,
do not carry the weight for you,
as they do for me.
I am afraid that reading the last few chapters
of your book to me didn’t completely envelope your heart in love,
as it did mine.
I am afraid that all of these words I write in honesty and pure intent,
that you read deep in the night,
mean nothing to you, and that they fall on a cold heart.
I’m afraid that you truly have no intentions of making time
to see me, plan as we might,
and that the thought of a future without me doesn’t just break your heart
like it does mine.
I am afraid that I am just a footnote to you,
while you are the entire story to me.

So no, I do not fear God,
nor any man,
nor any kind of beast,
but you?

I am afraid of you.



I do not want simple seconds
or microscopic minutes with you.
I want seasons with you

I want to experience the Spring of our love,
when we bloom together far fuller than any rose
or snapdragon we can say we have seen.
When the young tendrils of our hearts and souls
begin to take root in our bones,
and the warmth and nourishment of our laughs together
like a fine, crisp mist
settles upon the budding leaves of our memories,
like fresh morning dew.

I want to experience the Summer of our love,
when the warmth and radiance of the sun,
one another,
is soaked into our broadened branches,
strengthening them,
creating shade against the cruelty of the world.
Where the brown of your chestnut eyes
meet the sky in my own,
and the roots we have taken such tender care of
grow stronger
and any fear of uproot has been quelled in the Light
of our love.

I want to experience the Autumn of our love,
where we can revel in the brilliant
golds, reds, yellows, and oranges,
as the fruits of our labor fall around us.
Our roots, though strong, will uplift each other,
as we dance among the falling leaves.
I want us to never forget to hold hands
as we walk together.
And as the blades of Fall whirl around us
we realize that two damaged people,
trying to heal each other,
is love.

I want to experience the Winter of our love,
where the frigid winds strip away our bark.
Where the snow settles upon our exposed branches,
and critters, in awe of the strength of our love,
make their homes inside our spirits.
While on the outside,
the knots and whorls of our branches may seem intimidating
only we know
that for every corkscrew,
every twist,
every turn,
is unique to our love
for they are our story.
And as Spring comes around again,
we step forward,
into the new year,
eager to grow new roots,
hardier bark,
thicker leaves,
for each and every season has given us more
and more
to love about each other.

I want seasons with you.



You think that you know her
because you have seen her bare
but there is more to her
than just the flesh you have become
so enamored with.

You wouldn’t know it
because you care not to look,
but she has a scar just beneath her chin
that she tries to hide.
She got it when she fell off her bike
because her father was never there
to teach her
and her landlady could never quite
find the time.

You ‘love’ the sensuous curve of her thighs
in her favorite pair of jeans
but do you know that it’s to hide
the cuts she left upon herself
when the mother she so desperately needed
was off in the arms of another pathetic excuse
for a man?

Do you have any idea
the caliber of demons she fights
every goddamn night
because every friend she ever had
had given her another excuse
to give up on mankind?

Do you notice the way her soul just
crackles with life
when she is deep in her favorite book
or the way her nose
that she always thought was too big
will puff up when she is upset?

Can you even fathom
the walls she has lowered
for you to call her something as base

No, you cannot.
Nor do you really even care.
All you see is the pinnacle of flesh,
and all I see
is more.
So much

This is the difference between us.


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