the town crazies

I asked my lungs to let me breathe.

To let it all work so that my heart could beat.

To let my eyes open from weary grey

and my lids rise from fitful, wistful sleep.

Once there was a hand that slid down my back,

whose fingers whispered patterns on my hips and

lips that emboss poems onto my brow.

That is a veil lifted,

a memory scoured and blissful.

A time cherished and forever pedestalled.

My lungs will no longer gasp for calloused lips, 

nor poetic fingers.

we are but the foulest of creatures,

with the purest of hearts,

that no one will ever see.

i am hidden from you because of what you could do to me,

and i hide on my sleeve so you think its make believe.

sometimes when you hold my neck and whisper in my ear 

“did you miss me?”

i say,

yes

Raw water rolls softly away from your palm as you place it against its soul.

It echoes your hand print and send goose bumps numbing your legs to your ankles and contracting your chest.

Exhale and let the burst of life so hidden from yourself jump from your skin and chase patterns in the sky.

Let your eyes roam the ink black night for an angel star that can sway with you on mellow nights across the old cobbled streets in your city of rebirth.

That can caress you in light like cashmere and protect you like amour.

I dream of you running your forefinger down the spine of my back

as we waltz around the corners of the shower stall.

Kiss my shoulder as we ignite and hot water jets over our passionate bodies.

I could face the outside with someone like you.

In our hast to be great,

we called ourselves Gods.

The towns people sighed and in relief they said

Thank the heavens, they are only human. 

I am sure that it is the colours of your hair that express the algorithm to breath. The dying sun is what pumps my heart and I vow to commit to the moments that hold the sparks. We walk and walk and I can feel something growing. It would be almost undistinguisable to an outsider but we feel that connection. Some unexplainable fluididity, some mutual feeling to watch the jaded orange from the sun glint off the beer bottles and scortch our eyes. It dips behind the mountains and so do our inhibitions but I never want to leave your side. This is where you grab my hand, scull your drink and we howl to the growing moon.

You are the ocean
and I like to keep you close.
You touch me gently.
I am at bliss.
Your words rush over me
in magnificent torrents of
tenderness and humour
so that when we are finally silent,
I feel cleansed,
Almost light.
Your emotions show on your face
and I love the way
deep within you, I see,
there is more that you wish to say.
Your eyes glitter with the colour of the world.
With you there is just being
and life is as fragile and impenetrable
as the ocean that keeps you.

Under where the cherry blossom grows

I will sit and stay a while.

The sounds of the young girls who sing

wash away the dirt and grit.

Let us play a while,

Let us stay a while,

Let us laugh a while,

While I am young.

If I had courage,

more then now.

To the stained glass windows,

I’d move the sun and stand under those holy rays of light.

How do you choose for the innocent, Dear Lord?

Are we not all equal?

Under where the cherry blossoms fall, 

I lay,

so you can stay a while. 

Does it hurt that I love you more than the infinite light particles of the sky?

That every breath I breathe is a testament to my will to love you harder.

That my movement is a song only you can create.

That the kisses you delicately place on each rib bone could awaken me from almost death,

and that I pray ferociously to God, that you are not his favourite.

I see eternity in your smile. 

To the shades of air

that melt unto my fingertips

and grace me with your prayers,

I am but a lonely mule,

waiting for the road.

They say it is one worth searching for.

To look for all your days.

They say it is almost worm-like,

blazing past your trail.

But once I met a wizened gypsy,

hiking up the same.

I asked him his direction,

he glanced at me and said;

my guess is that the road we search for is equal to both. 

We have heard of riches and glory, magic, haze.

I’ve searched, mule. I’ve walked roads merely dreamed of,

but am yet to find such a proclaimed road.

I’ve searched for the road worth searching for 

and

while wasted on my travels,

I missed the road worth grazing on. 

I cry only once when the leaves of the trees turn to reds and yellows and are taken back by the earth.

I cry when love turns sour and hands which caressed the face

fall from their forever-place to barren sides,

where wind and feeling regress from their tips.

Why do tears fall for only these things?

A steady trickle that flows over the contours of the face to where the chin waves a hollowed goodbye.

Will you weep for others, for life gone and lost, lived and shared?

For beauty,should it be the wisdom of mankind and growth of children.

No, I weep for things of fleeting warmth.

My fingertips touch the brissles of your cheek

and the flowers bloom.

I hear you feverishly scratch love words onto paper.

Forever etched in earth and hearts.

I lay beside you and hear you exhale, like silk.

Your lungs present me with your hopes and dreams.

I inhale them.

I inhale you.

And when I sit beside you on the bench that overlooks the mountains that cradle us and the river that encircles us,

I feel your body heat and know you are the same.

Is it the wind that keeps me coming back to you?

The sweet spring days?

The way you thumb traced my cheekbones as you kissed my face?

And there is a deeper connection that runs further then the infinite.

I am longing for the day back were you wake up and whisper the words that I left with you.

Is it the waffles on market street, that stirs the air?

Browning leaves that which cartwheel over paving stones.

We are more than lovers held together by a rusted chain.

And we are more then soul mates broken by a double-sighted man.

The bitter metallic taste,

the flashes of white light.

It all meant nothing to me.

Because I can still feel the heavy weight of your arms on my shoulders 

and the flush on my cheek were your lips should be.

Under my covers

cosy and warm 

I am who I am, comfortable you see.

The motion, 

it’s as placid and easy

as breathing could ever be.

But where is the life,

the ecstacy,

the spark?

When you are curled up in covers

safe and warm, in the dark.

It is hidden deep down

Under blankets and rugs.

Shunted not nurtured

to explore the world above.

You are you, I am me.

We are we, easy to see.

But you are lying 

if you are lying under the covers everyday.