I meet you in the early morning glints
Sunlight like a gold knife cutting the sky
I shuffle, too sleepy to judge your moves
Your hair, a boxed up waterfall of silver
Your eyes, curved with rows of crop circles
A work of art still growing secretly
Your feet in slippers, I yawn, how comfy
A rumpled blanket around your shoulders
Ah, I’d like to climb back in my bed, too
A tent under the bridge, dancing with wind
I pause, four hands fix it faster than two
He fidgets past the row of tents
Eyes like fishing poles reeling reality
Every time I turn the page of my favorite book I feel all kinds of emotions. I used to believe: “If that’s not magic, I don’t know what else is”. And I never thought I would find something like that, but then you appeared and suddenly I see magic everywhere.
i. this in the dying dusk light, dear – do what you came to do. the dagger is slick in your hand and murder is slick in your mind, so take care to plunge the blade in deep where it hurts. as you glow, i will fade.
ii. (God, girl, i would never hurt you! twilight makes masks from faces, thorns from roses, liars from honest men. where did you get the idea that i have grown claws? when did you start believing there were snakes hidden in my smiles?)
iii. when my blood flowed onto your hands; when your blade bit at the spaces between my ribs and plucked them like piano wire. does a rabbit trust a fox?
iv. (if the fox has shed the old coat and stepped into the new as the world steps into spring)
v. only if the rabbit is not as smart as it seems.
vi. (then the fox deserves rebirth.)
vii. my skin doesn’t warrant rebirth – the old scars still arc their way across my body. why should you have changed, when i stay the same?
viii. (skin is not soul.)
ix. and coat is not character.
x. (this blade would turn on itself before it turned on you.)
A man, or what remains of one, sits in a chair, antique, overstained, and above him, slowly lowering themselves, two breasts coming to rest, an arm wrapping around, dipping a brush into a palette and mixing black with black, a black becoming blacker, the void, expanding, and the man, shifting, clearing his throat, looking up at the woman, at the empty cloth, at the mixing colors, at a world beyond view, one where lovers don’t play roles of student and teacher, man and woman, and with this heavy thought he slipped from the chair to the plank wooden floor and no one, no large-breasted woman, no voice from the clouds, no levity from the gods of Earth, stopping him from submerging into the other-than, the space beyond the painted world.
Go ahead and be there for people. Offer a listening ear when they manage to heave the words they’ve been trying to say out of their throat. Be that shoulder to cry on when the dam breaks and their tears flood down their face. But remember, you are human. Not hospital, not clinic, human. And even they need to be maintained, so it’s only natural that you do too. Don’t forget yourself.
She asked me, “How do I look?”
and I swear, “You look beautiful”
was the biggest lie I’ve ever told,
because she didn’t look beautiful,
she looked like a dance of sunsets
and galaxies, she looked like fairy
dust and spring mornings,
she looked so much more
than just beautiful.