there is no right future
or wrong past
or regrettable present
these paths we find ourselves on are translucent.
The molecules shifting in and out of physical realms
failing to maintain any kind of consistency we
can hold in our aching hands for
more than the fleeting moment it
takes to look over our shoulder, and
return our gaze to the front – only to find
the scenery has betrayed our memory.
I have decided not to look forward or
to dwell in my footsteps, but rather set my sights
inward where the path cannot dictate which direction
my life should take. Where there are no
shades of right or wrong or regrettable.
Only a moment.
Something I can trust.
Dragging cold graphite across balmy skin
never leaving its mark, too light to be seen with any contrast
Oh how the fine point curls and crawls
as it struggles to make an indent
Applying pressure, looking for a kind of proof
that will carry on
Showing, without a shadow of a doubt —
something was there.
The rain is all but drizzling through me
in the same way your thoughts course
from your lips to my palms
Moments encroach upon us in which the peace slips away. Just as swiftly as the quiet engulfed the senses – like a rush of fresh, crisp air – it escapes our consciousness, leaving behind the stale shadows that follow us around so adamantly.
These bouts of lament are not welcome, yet are ever so comfortable to sit with – like a loyal old friend. As if this is the state in which we were born; aching to the core, soaked in sorrow, drifting in and out of contentment like a dream we are unsure we have woken from.
Moments pass, and we are again consumed by a sense of serenity as the calm returns and the sorrow sleeps for a spell. We can only hope the darkness will keep away for just one moment more than it chose to stay. Standing still, we watch as the moments swirl around us, the coming and going of shadows and peace – passing before our sleepy eyes.
land softly upon
the top of your head –
like freshly fallen
snow, on a dark
They are for you.
Reach out your
before they melt away
each with a
melting on the tip
of your nose.
Can you hear what
the cold air is saying?
secrets carried down
from clouds we cannot
I want to take your words
and spin them into
A kind of art that is
the tourists who walk by
will have to look away.
Music more transcendent
than your favorite song
They sit on the edge
of my memory,
always so close to falling
If I don’t make them
into something I can hold,
I fear there will never
again be art or music
those words of yours.
Even the words that don’t
belong to you
the words of others
whom you admire or despise,
coming from your mouth
they’re all exquisite to me.
To my ears as they fall
from your lips
to my eyes as your teeth
and tongue work together,
making everything else I
have ever thought beautiful
You do not create art
You do not not create art
because others do not reciprocate your feelings about your art.
My art is mine to hold.
The world is welcome to participate at any time,
to hold it as their own.
I do not love
I do not not love
because others do not reciprocate my feelings about my love.
You love because it holds you.
I am not welcome to love at any time,
I do love, even when you do not.