The Land I Yearn To Stand On

My fingertips grow restless,
Anxious to be the ships sailing on your skin,
To drift
Slowly,
Blissfully
In your calm waters.

Nearing the new land they so impatiently desire,
All else falls off the edge of the earth,
And there is only you,
The gravity pulling me home.

Can I Ask for One Last Kiss?

White knuckles, sweaty palms
Hearts, once beating as one,
Now fractured, lonely
A lump forms in a throat
That “I love you”s once flowed so easily from
Could this be it?
I feel the rope, unwavering yet uncertain 
Now slipping from my hands
I see now, what I denied for so long
You, who was once my dearest love,
You don’t belong to me;
You’re still hers
And until those ties are broken
I am the only one cheated;
I gave you all of me,
But can you say the same?

The Day the Crayolas Combusted

The crowd milled about all around us, but all I saw was a wonder of the underground world that most overlooked.

The sight of nimble, petite limbs fueled by the spasms of a synthesizer which now twisted and contorted in unspeakable, remarkable ways.

                                           
Her fluffy, bright blonde hair shone just as the rays of her dazzling smile, which most likely reflected the sparkle of her neon pink leggings.

A glittering rainbow, a feast for the lack acid-tripped eyes.  

Adept fingers grabbed a hula-hoop dipped in the most radioactive colours, flipped it up into the air, the ring creating its own toxic light.

Her body curls and shrinks itself to fit the diameter of the hoop, dancing with it, through it, anything to create an aesthetic delight.

Daring hands gathered more bright loops, adding them to the mix and fitting them around her body.

She gyrated in time with the movements of her props, keeping them all alive with the music that played in her head.

The bundle of rainbow-splashed protons and neutrons, being constantly orbited by neon electrons, made a feast for the eyes.

This was the day the Crayola crayons combusted.

Again, You Live In Pictures Now

I don’t know time

Or even place

All I can see

Is just your face

Such exuberance

Is evident

As you receive

Cake, decadent

(But what I love

Is how she looks

There is only you

And no one else)

It’s odd to see

You so alive

When last your health

Took a crash dive

As you take your

Plate in hand

I see future

Is not what you planned

I want to say

Just one thing

I miss the way

You used to sing

I miss your shows,

Andy, Opie,

McGyver, though

Not a soul knew

About Sweet Dreams

But now you’re gone

I can’t revive

And now I won’t

See you alive. 

School Never Did Interest Me Much

If you forget me,

I want you to know

I want to be a scholar.

Teach me

The language of you

Every accent

Every dialect

I want to learn every tense

I want to master the prose of your skin

Teach me

The geometry of your emerald eyes

When they

Meet mine

I want to learn each theorem

I want to know each conic section of your gaze

Teach me

The chemistry of us

Every kiss

Every embrace

When your tender lips brush my flesh

I want to learn the proper chemical bond

I want to be a scholar in the ways

Of you

Of us

Of this

Good Night, Good Luck, and Goodbye

And when you get here

You’re not given instructions

There is no given code to follow

There are no sets of laws

Guidelines hold no meaning

And we tore up the diagrams long ago

There is no set path you have to follow each day

No directions in which to travel,

You’re not given a reason

And I believe we threw out our rhyme,

Leaving behind beats and tempo

You’re not told what colour to paint your feelings

Nor are you given a script from which to recite

There is no tab A inserted into slot B

Maps were never drawn, signs never created

And GPS is now a thing of the past,

But I believe you’ll know which way to go

And when you get here

You will see

You have to make all of it up

And you have to do it

All by yourself

The Missing Ingredient

I have a list, a collection if you will.
It has pictures of a candle-lit bistro on a quiet street in London.
It has scenes of urgent lips too-swiftly meeting.
It has the feel of your hand in mine.
It has all the wasted moments of days bookended by your presence.
It has the scent of lavender and satin.
It has the searing alcohol that stung my soul.
It has the crisp clink of wine glasses.
It has bittersweet memories of when sun met moon.
It has the warm taste of a spice you can't quite place.
I have a list, a collection if you will.
I have times and dates,
People and places,
Scenes and faces.
But I don't have you.