the spill

I see that you're tired now
You seem to sigh with every step and I
Can sense your defeat and empty loss
You left me a note the other day but
We know it means zero when words
Always come easy for the writer just
More letters stitched together in the most
Perfect of ways

august

the night falls and i know you are waiting
in the corners you lurk, slightly leaning forward
listening ever so carefully as my obvious signs of weakness settle in,
finding their daily comforts-
my heavy shoulders and that tattered heart that burns

this wool cost is itchy and comforting for it's warmth and familarity
i'm aware of your presence and invite you in...
together we sit and cry
so close to each other, yet still without comfort

we sit and we drain.

It's May II

now
as i try to sit and pour
out onto these keys and find my
muse again; there is a pair of
tiny hands with five little feelers
that search and grab and pull for me
large, curious eyes stare just a few
inches from my face, with breath
that is sticky and almost sweet as
she sits there, her chest going up
and down with every second that
redirects my purpose and brings the
sun around here more often to
help the words spill and the verses
inspire

It's May I

you supposed that the change of seasons
spilled these words onto the page but
the sun came and now its hiding again but
we hadn't seen a single verse from this
mind that's hasn't seen much other than
teflon and cracked plates. the wine has filled
the perpetual glass and now we can argue that
its gentle lubrication brings the wolf into the night
and gives us something to run from
vulnerable, so softened by day and easy living

i smooth down the sheets of our bed
and i do it so gently and so soft
because in this bed you can find us
as we lay catching the gray of the
morning and we rest entwined waiting for
the sleep to lift and for life to begin
again but it is sweeter here now that
a tiny little body takes up a huge part
and your smell and hers are mixed under
pillows and a lot of these three is spoken for
between those blankets we started new worlds
and discussed what was to come tomorrow or
in 100 years when we are hunched and weaker
and the prints on those sheets will signify
what we will become because we spoke of it
here

Shhh.

do not tell me this is it
no one can expect to believe
that from my person came the
only bit of me that will ever grow
the single part that can become
more than "i wish" or "i want"
and can actually BE for i
almost remember that once
i WAS and now i must
just wait for this instinct to
be silenced long enough for me
to do again and not just hope,
enough to create and not just
wait.