Scripted

These are my words
and in the spaces
are the pieces of me that
broke off a long time ago
the scars
the scabs
the stories I can't
tell you
Although I wish I had
the words.

Around the punctuation
You'll see the curved places
Of my wanting
The echoes of my
Open arms.

And in the dots on the i's
And in the bowls of the o's
the exotic lures of wild
Orchid species, designed
Only to bring you to
Me.

heights

The most trite image:
"Hanging off a precipice,
Afraid to fall."

Honestly, ten thousand pop songs and
A million would-be minstrels have
Paved this path.

But then you took my hand,
And I was suddenly
Hanging in a strong breeze,
Gripping one slim bar beside
An airplane attached to
Nothing
Looking down 14,000 ft at
A squirming mass of snakes, spiders
and rejection.

How much faith do I need to let go?
How much courage?
Or should I just wait till I'm too tired
to hang on to these fears?

thinking too much

every time my
eyes close
one more scene flashes up
like projected vacation slides
you

Laughing
Dancing
Talking
Drinking

your eyes deep, dark, impenetrable
and my phone keeps
not ringing

For the word stringer with the greatest cache of beautiful beads

And so the sun stared down
Our backs, and we, hunched, focussed,
Counted out our beads, piled in glassy hives of
Beautiful colours,
Puce,
Amber,
Viridian,
Teal.

And so we strung a pattern, a story, with our
small glass beads.

But as always, he
Sat apart, slightly turned, and
Only when he revealed the final
Scintillating, labyrinthine pattern,
Only when his smile
Resonated in a thousand facets of light from
The resplendent rosary he held aloft,
Adorned with a myriad of stones,
Large, small, beautiful, all--

Only then
Did we acknowledge ourselves mere dilettantes.

tempus fugit and we are glad

Is there inherent quality in this, enough
That if infinity were an option and we,
And this, went
On and on, like
Movie vampires, living through aeons of change,
And remaining, ourselves, unchanged;
That this, and we, would still retain this
Golden sheen of beauty?

Or does the brevity of
Our lives lend them meaning, as
The philosophers and poets insist?
Does our struggle to make a ripple
In our moment
On the surface of the vastness of forever
Define us with honour, joy or value?

And
Even so, does the blink of
Time in which you and I are
Clasped like this,
Have a beauty that overlong held,
Would be stained by familiarity
And contempt, first
Verdigris and then
Tarnished to dirt?

and all the infinite stars

I was staring into the night sky
Thinking about the person I
am, the person I should be,
Who I was and who
I am with you, and it
Was like looking around a
Mirrored room with me
Retreating endlessly away
In all directions.

In a way it was odd, since
Usually I can only see
You.

I started thinking about all
the infinite stars in the sky,
And I could feel myself disappearing,
Shrinking to one of a billion grains of
Meaningless sand, and so

When you woke and asked me
Why I was crying,
That's why I said because
I miss the moon.

petals falling

Some would compare it to an
Onion, but I think, if I'm going
To cry I'd rather it be from the thorns,
So, like a rose, layered deep, our
Mutual and exclusive needs,
Stripped away as they are exposed,
Support, and security,
Acceptance for all this,
Silky hair, and sinewed muscle and an
Absolute lack of judgement.

(That
Is deliberately a dual-edged statement.)

Enough reflections of 'yes, me too' to balance the
'really? ... no, really?' moments, and then
parental echoes and tests we invented to
see how much cynicism you would require and
how strong are you? Because I want you to
Carry this for me, on your own trembling
Shoulders.

Stripped away till there is left just the
Tiniest heart-of-rose, the softest and
Starkest moments of open, raw
Don't-ever-leave-me-alone.
Don't ever leave me alone.