tenochitlan.

you're pretty funny
but you are sad
too
because you sort of
just go and act, bend
so easily but i suppose
it is not your fault
you, with the putty
backbone
the frame of your soul
is weathered and old,
the meat inside of it
fetal and
ill

your face is glowing
so beautiful of
greens and pinks
the pretty colors
that never seem to
look any less
bright and they
draw me to you every
single night because
everything flatters you
as i look through this
glittery, but thinned
silky perception

you sink me, but i like it
the warmth as i drown is
comforting because i am
fully covered, toe to hair
with your uncertainty, frailty
your sort of, here
sort of

never.

elmer

sometimes i remember the words
i think of them, fondly
with the sort of remembrance
only reserved for something
tangible, yet out of reach
something you had, had
the proper tense of
what was once and
is not yours anymore

they're still there often
they bend and stare
long and willowy, heavy
almost taunting they
like to settle in my
conscious state as i
drive and sit with sun
penetrating the small
hairs of my arms

now that that i can
i sit and compose
what you read is
just a reminder
i am here, stagnant
constantly reminded but
not able to unglue

Mila.

In the soft warmth of your body
And delicate sweetness of the air
that slowly exits from tiny lips
I find my new source of right,
a fountain of purity that I hope
To swim in when the moon settles
and pretend to have been so clean
all along.

Your creation has lent me
a second skin that I seem to wear
proudly and comfortably-
It fits so I let it cover me and
though I'm unsure and pretending most of the time...
I'm sure this is what helps me wear the hats so well.

We lay in the mornings and as you sleep and the dawn brings a new sun to loom over us
I continue to selfishly breathe you in, silently
The only sounds are the opening daisies and the light filtering into a new day.

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