This everlasting season

The hot kettle squeals

In the kitchen, in the spring.

Your smile, my hope,

Across the way, looms

Brilliantly in my view

Like the pleasant hope

In the sky, on a night

Lived like a daydream.

I never hoped or knew of

Any of that. The spring,

With its buds and lively

Branches, animated in green

Were the call to become

For me. I was to be more

Than the seasons passed,

Other short springs, mostly

The long winters of my home,

Or scalding summers therein.

But you smile even in the

Dark, even when I'm blinded,

Because you know I feel it,

Love it, like the fresh caress

Of new growth.

We can lay ourselves down

In fields of grass with

Wine and picnics, flowers

And naive hope, because

Without it we will never

Make it through.

Without it, darling,

Without your smile,

Cultivated from the power

Of the sun, we cannot live

in this everlasting season.

It was the best decision I ever made

Nostalgia hits in the cafe with its kite-lifting winds.

Reading a letter, hands extend from the words on the

Page to tussle my hair, and slowly

Draw. A. Finger. Across. My. Chest.

It's the seduction from afar, that attraction

Of the past. The square block fits neatly

In its place when the toddler places it there.

That's the gentle call that becomes a scream

To be back in the days when pain was simply

The definition of love. Actually, gifting me with

Words I hadn't heard in sometime remind

Me of who I am, the line tied to the ground,

Refusing to let me fly away into the sky.

We tested dangerous thoughts back then.

It was horrible. It was sick. It was sadistic.

It was the best decision I've made

In my entire life.

Out here in the reaches

Words can only extend to the civilized edge,

Then they cannot lead us back anymore.

What stock we put in them, words,

Full of the meaning that we think they have,

And meaning something completely different.

This is the truth one feels of

What is just that nebulous

Stardust, out in the ever-extending

Reaches of a mind, put there

By the missed contact of eyes,

The quickly-left embrace,

The half-ly-hearted goodbyes.

It is

The instinct of a soul recognizing

The distance of another.

And without its way back,

Out here in the reaches - well

The dunes,

They become the sea.

Above us love

Unloaded all pain and being

Before you, dumped myself

On the floor. My heart

Is a mess of conflicting

Words on a page.

And willingly, as though

You were perfectly whole,

You, my wish and my care,

Lift me up from the puddle

Of words and mud to show me

Smiles full of hope and

Trust.

When the words pass away,

In silent nights, when

The lights are too dim to

See,

I feel you against me.

As we lay together in order above,

Our heads close, and think us

To be in the great bastion of unbounded

Love.

I'm not sure how I got here

I'm not sure how I got here.

Some strange series led to

This point. But I have warmth

Around me and arms and

Love, here, in this innocent bed.

My mind has been flushing for

Days, out my ears and nose,

Worrying me of losing

Everything I held close; the

"me" part of myself is up

There and is draining from the

Bathtub of my anxiety.

But even as I waste away,

Body and mind, shaking,

Sweating, crying just to be

A whole human being, you

Are always present. And I -

I'm losing control. Scared to

Death, but never feeling

Alone.

Sometimes with adamancy

Sometimes with adamancy,

with repeated words and

stories again, I begin

to grow wary of myself.

Yes, watching, as if across

the room, my mouth move,

and from so far away

my voice is in my other

mouth, my mind, reciting

in routine. (worth it)

Not that you are less.

No, in fact, I am so newly

numb that I cannot say

what you are

for sure. I need senses

for that, those, yes, gone

for now.

When they return, when I am

in myself, I think (know certainly)

I will be fond of you. I see this

even from all the distance.

For now that is where I

hear you. Talking to me

from far away.

What I catch makes me think

of perfect contentment

in the silence of walks in

parks long dark and

closed.

We speak candidly of love as

if we read from the same

book (because we did). And

I am weary of that’s been wasted

when I knew nothing of your

existence.

I hope that the moment

when I know these strolls

and embraces will never

be placed in

cans on curb sides, because

I’ve had too many rough drafts

of love. None read right.

None read me right.

So I say with one mouth

or another,

“don’t get this wrong.”

“Don’t get this wrong.”

That is advice just for me.

When he has fears that he may cease to be

When we converse in some years, he and me,

With my pen poised over his lurid brain,

'fore high-piled books in calligraphy

Fill both our shelves beneath frost glass and rain,

When we look up at two, same, star-filled skies,

White edging though midnight-colored romance;

And he at his desk writing out his cries

With my jealousy of slow, downward dance,

Complaining of love never there at all,

that imagined fair with gold, flowing hair,

wanting only in relation t'his fall

that softening skin, warm, tingled, and bare,

I think how lucky he to be alone

with a chance now to fall peacefully home.