Judith wears an old school heart.
She’s an empathetic record on repeat,
replaying each tune like it’s never been played.
Her vision presses far past the moonless,
rebuking every cecity.
And if you look in her eyes:
her old school eyes,
I promise you’ll always find something new.
-and so will she // Happy Birthday, Judy
Red cherry romance
Red cherry realm
Red, I’m really ready
to ravish your realm.
I hold you by the stem
myself I overwhelm
I try not to taste
this ruby red gem:
Red blissful Cherry,
I say one thing
and mean the contrary.
So, tell me would it be a total waste,
to not divulge
in a little taste?
To not sink teeth into
Flesh I’ve known:
a flesh much sweeter
than my own
A flesh so ripe
holds nothing too new-
just a Red that is red
after a season so blue.
-the waiting game
Here it is Tuesday, December 5th,
perhaps it is where you are too.
Lately I’m not where you are.
I haven’t been paying much attention to calendar dates
or what time my head meets my pillow each night.
I say “Goodnight” but
I can’t claim I sleep at night-
unless night is just another word
for the start of an early-riser’s day.
I’ve been sleeping at 5am
and I only know this because you
have been too.
As far as I know we are together,
unless I know nothing.
But, if I know that I know nothing: that is still knowing something.
I know it’s raining outside
and you love the rain;
I wonder if you
love me like I love the rain.
If we were together
-paradox is your favorite word, right?
For the last few months
lay a yellow glass lantern
broken in the corner of my bathroom.
People seem to throw away glass once it shatters.
Something, once whole,
now far too broken to piece back together-
but we don’t throw away broken people,
…unless we do?
I realize this is a faulty comparison.
What could I do with a lantern
that could no longer fulfill its purpose-
one that could no longer hold
There isn’t a chance for restoration-
Unlike a human.
Scratch that metaphor.
I will look at the glass as a reminder that
Whether I decide to keep the glass or toss it,
I cannot bring it back to what it was.
I can see it, I can touch it,
I can let the shards shred my skin if I wish…
I can recognize what was
and make room for the next lantern to come.
-I have a problem of making everything into a metaphor.
I thrive in chaos and you crack under pressure,
How I wish you wouldn’t.
-I’m your pressure; you’re my chaos.
At least I mean what I say when I write.
You don’t write; you speak.
You speak rather eloquently,
But what does that mean
Since you don’t seem to mean what
I hold onto your words
That aren’t on pages
Until my pen makes each one eternal that night.
I linger and rest in the eloquence,
But we both know I shouldn’t.
For I am someone who likes words,
And you just talk so damn well.
Maybe you’re afraid you can’t interpolate your words on paper.
However, you can do that with the ones you’ve spoken;
I shouldn’t have been surprised when you did.
-After all, your spoken words were written by me.
Tell me about the comet that destroyed you:
the one you swore was a shooting star
until it came crashing, hauling towards
the inner workings of your castle:
towards your mind.
Tell me about the days you laughed at
the otters and they laughed right back at you.
Tell me about the months that seemed like minutes
because that’s how hard you loved her.
Not because I’m asking-
but because you want me to know you
as much as I want to know you.
-I have comets, otters, and minutes too.