as the morning breeze whispers
the melody we made, 
the sting and ache echo
last night’s chorus
with each movement,

the warm sheets still hum
our candlelit din,
a masterpiece composed
over willing skin



I don’t visit often enough.
I tell myself it’s the distance,
work, time’s pull, insistent;
my schedule is rough.

But there’s unrest in my heart
that tells me that’s not true.
Instead of feeling closer to you,
seeing you only rips me apart.

Every time I see your face,
a little piece of me dies;
I feel the sadness you try to disguise,
the years of running a losing race.

I see too much
I see how you might look on my face.

-image via Pixabay


below them,
the dark streets beckoned
with crimson light,
come dance with me
in the pale moonlight

as their eyes vibrated electric
in fight or flight,
with hair drenched in sweat,
whole-body tremors,
and no appetites

hooked, no money in their pockets,
they hunted like wolves
in the night,
lines so bent and blurred,
wrong looked a lot like right

they did what they must
to feed the hungry demon’s grip
all day and night –
ain’t no sleepin’ tight tonite,
out there, the bedbugs bite

-image via Pixabay; created in response to Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie First Line Friday, where the First Line was ‘below them the dark streets beckoned with crimson light’

Loose Ends

I can’t seem to keep the dog from stealing my seat,
the screen door from flying open in the wind,
the breeze from sneaking in through the crack in the window seal,
or stop the overpriced tv from shutting off in the middle of my program

I can’t seem to stop the kitchen faucet’s brain-numbing dripping,
the buffering, buffering of my too-slow connections,
the fucking updates from making everything slower,
or stop the dishwashing detergent from making everything taste like soap

I can’t seem to wash away the smell of woods and pine hanging on my every thread,
the linger of bourbon-soaked conversations between sweat-soaked sheets,
the feeling of your fingertips gliding across my skin,
or stop the electricity from crackling between us in trails of gooseflesh

I have so many loose ends, it seems,
too many to list

but, Baby, you aren’t one of them

-image via Pixabay

Weapon of Choice

I am alive,
so awakened by the magic in my life I chose to create,
I’m bursting at my seams to explore,
but this life’s constraints allow only so much exploration

I’m afraid if I don’t explore these parts of me,
I’ll explode

and if I do get the opportunity to explore them,
I may also explode

so, here I am,
a caged bird,
pulling out my own feathers to keep my mind occupied

ravenous for something food can’t satisfy,
though I sometimes try

this extra weight my battle scar,
the tangible evidence of my fight against myself,
and not taking care of myself my weapon of choice

-image via Tumblr

Worth the Wait

“I forgive you,” he said, so easily,
as if it took no thought at all –

my heart wasn’t prepared for that,
how could it possibly be that simple?

it became glaringly evident that love is a stream of mindfulness,
of choice after choice,
of forgiveness,
tiny currents of trust, which compound, gaining strength,
a path of morsels, each one made of bits honor, of memories, one after the other,
that leads you back to the person who is waiting,
who wants to wait,
who believes there was something worth waiting for

I followed the path,
I forgive you, too

we were worth the wait

I Awake

I awake to vibrations of electric blue,
afloat in a sea of me and you

where time is waves of thrashing heat,
and space is endless as our bodies meet

eyes still unfocused, yet clearly I see;
my soul knows every inch of the flesh against me

molding together like sinking feet into sand,
or aching clay resting in the palm of your hand

pushing and pulling like the moon and the tide,
as my body to your commands does eagerly abide

-image via Pinterest