(Untitled)

While driving along the

moonlit miles of I-65,

I find that my mind has wandered

further than I intended it to go.

Beyond the forest line,

beaming headlights,

and sleeping semi’s,

I am seeing your face,

hearing your voice,

and smelling your perfume.

I picture us around the table,

gorging our bellies and spilling

words from our mouths;

shouting, laughing, yawning,

breathing, living,

–being.

Toil-worn and tearful,

I have no choice but to

bring the focus back to

the longest road

and the widest stretch of night

I have ever known.

The Autumn Is Not Still At All

Luke warm air hangs

stagnant,

giving way only to

it’s living surroundings.

The trees are strong

and tall

and when the acorns fall

the branches emit a series

of cracks and pops,

followed by a

squerell-scampering symphony

among the fallen leaves.

Occasionally, a child will play,

echoing the bounce of a ball

along the court.

Or a car will make a quiet pass,

slow and precise.

Each careful not to

crunch a leaf,

snap a twig,

or overturn a rock

in this

breathing, beating

musical.

Past Life Lovers

As I sit still in the calm

of Fall,

and far away,

my heart pulls for you,

extending and retreating

with the moon’s forceful tides.

As always,

I long for your love

with all the hopefulness

of a wide-eyed child

discovering a beached

message from a bottle.

We love for centuries,

you and I.

Through eras,

frames, periods,

and lifetimes.

Always finding

one another,

loving boundary-less,

capturing moments

and tossing them back

into the ocean

for the next

wide-eyed child.

People on Earth Do Dwell

Tonight while sitting in

an empty parking lot,

I searched for you in a book of hymns.

I searched for written words,

underlines, notes in margins,

dog-eared pages.

But you left nothing more than

your name

scrawled on the inside cover.

Let down by the lack

of  communication

from beyond,

I turned to look out the window

and watched as a gust of wind

pushed a shopping cart away

from its holding place.

The buggy raced across the aisles,

passing a small group of its siblings,

and stealthily continued

until settling with the wind,

bringing my longing

 to a gentle halt

against a curb.

Sirens Under Water

The end of the longest day,

and I feel like I have been

hit by a bus.

Only, I have never seen a bus

large enough

to take this aching

from under my feet.

Maybe a giant

blue whale,

three buses long,

could swallow me up,

keep me in the depths

of his belly,

and sloth the ocean currents,

singing my ocean song

for all the lonesome creatures.

What’s My Name? Who Am I?

I knew before I asked

that you could not give

the answers.

How naive of me

it must have been

to expect my face

to be enough.

Maybe if you had

just held my face,

or felt my hand

in yours,

our memories could

have lasted

and rushed

to fill

your brain

as quickly as

a seizure.

Household Fractions

He is the part of me

that I keep

tucked away

in the sock drawer,

among lace and cotton

comfort.

Not hidden

out of shame or embarrassment,

but for safe keeping.

And in the mornings

while searching for

a single sock’s lover

I’ll find mine.

waiting.

Loving and waiting.

I Left No Candle Burning

Today was my birthday.

Bows and candles aside,

I cannot remember a time

I have felt so low.

Lower that I cannot rest.

Lower that I cannot provide.

Lower than adulthood’s

protruding belly of doubt.

Hey, Baby…

To neatly join two words

and form a love

is no feat for over-nighters.

Repetition cannot replace

the images these words

conjure when coming

from your mouth.

I long for them now,

yet I know that

asking you to say them again

would only be cheating

us both of comfort and childhood.

Seeing through your empty eyes,

I know there is love left in your heart

and somewhere,

two words left

lingering on your tongue.

Offering

For weeks

I have walked past

the hospital chapel

and have never seen anyone inside.

The door is always ajar,

lights dim, glass taunting.

After creeping in today,

I was caught by a book,

open on a pedestal.

A listing.

“Pray for my Gabriel. He is my angel”.

“Pray for my husband”.

“PRAY TO GOD FOR A MIRACLE!!”

No longer requests,

but demands,

a primitive need

to keep humanity

alive.

I wanted to rip the pages apart,

swallow them,

breathe them in,

and wallpaper my lungs

with longing.

Instead, I ran from the room

in fear.

Embarrassment.

I should have ran to you then.

I should have climbed into your bed,

unhooked those tubes and wires,

placed them in myself,

and watched you walk away

in the midst

of such a miracle.