0

ocean.

you are a wave, 
crashing over me
suffocating me, 
sucking me out to sea,
only to spit me back on the sand.
you draw me in,
invite me to drown in you,
dying would be so beautiful,
but then you say not yet. 
legs raw from the sand,
eyes red from the salt,
take me out to sea,
or let me crawl away
from this madness. 
as long as my feet are in the water,
i belong to you. 
0

notitle.

it is the strangest thing
this desire to love you,
to unzip your skin
and crawl into your soul with you,
to want to know every inch of you,
to cause you pleasure.
i want to love you so deeply,
that you can never escape
the feeling of being cared for.
that even in the darkest places,
there is a light reaching out to you.

0

s.

you are the sun
warming my face
while i sit precariously
on the edge of some
far away tall place. 
and you are the
smell of rain in summer
musky and sweet and calm. 
you are a house - built with 
strong bones and a kitchen
that smells inevitably 
like coffee and warmth.
you are blue and green
and gray like the sea.
soothing and beautiful,
filled with mystery, still. 
you are laughter and safety,
a joke poised on pursed lips
and light so bright
the sun is only a dark smudge.
you are are music
and dancing
spinning in time with mother earth;
melodies that i hope
i hear forever. 
0

books.

people are books.
some leave you gasping in your seat,
teary eyed, broken up about it.
folded pages, dusty left behinds
in bins we shove in the attic,
ship away to the goodwill
somewhere after saturday morning coffee
they are ripped pages burned to ash
framed, cut into shapes by someone
who thought it was a good idea,
even though it’s just a cliche on a bookshelf.
teach you things, tell you things.
blank pages, fresh paper
reminders of better times, good times,
bad times, lost times, future times.
people are books.
they smell like hope and calm
and sometimes they are soggy and burnt
with ruin from something no fault of their own.
they have coffee stains, and food prints
and sometimes they fall apart
when you pick them up
because they have lived a life
that was never meant for something so fragile
people are books,
they are beautiful bound leather
and tattered paperbacks loved
a little too much,
lifetimes, lifetimes
of fierce love and hope and lessons.
people are books.

0

kitchen talks.

its 1 am and some change,
and you're dancing with me,
round and round and round,
we're spinning in slow motion
drunk on red wine and jager
and whatever the fuck this is -
this thing with you that has me so high,
i can see the ocean from the sky
and its the blue in your eyes
and i could drown, happily
suffocated by a sea of blue and gray.
i am interested. you are very pretty.
you say. 
youre so gorgeous.
i say.
this will always be ours, 
this laughter in the earliest 
parts of a new day and 
even if this is all there is. 
the things that have lived inside
my head tumble out in spirals
and you just let it flow over you
this waterfall of words and you take it
so easily like this wave is not too much.  
0

honey.moon.

i want to crawl inside your skin,
be so close i can touch your heart
with my bare hands, feel it beating.
i remember the way this felt before,
i know the way the fire burns hot,
leaves nothing but ashes behind.
i haven’t forgotten that for all the heat,
there is ice and cold and pain.
i hate this feeling of wanting
to love you deeply and softly, completely.
i hate it because it gives you power
that no one should ever have.
i hate that i want to drown in you,
that i never want to come up for air.
i hate that i feel like im holding smoke
watching it drift through my fingers
and im trying to inhale it,
some last ditch effort to keep my sanity,
because there you are,
saying some of the right things
and being so damn beautiful.