These men are cunning not alone with words

and it is only the simple man who can ever truly say I love you

These men look to the starless sky and cast their imagery; life bears no beauty like the empty void

crushing life between their palms rolling it between their fingers

their eyes don’t weep for what they’ve lost but for what they cannot find

This is no pleasure nor remedy, This is Breathing This is Beating This is Consuming This is, and for so long as it is, so are we.

we’ll whisper into midnight to hear our thoughts above the pounding of our feet

And this poem will be forgotten before my hand can touch the page.

What fire have I in my reddened silence to deny the crimson hush? An ember buried in fallen leaves burns far more fierce than that of lust.

Whipped up by winds, we’ll crown the hills with waves of growing flame. We’ll light the dusk, ignite the dawn; with rosy poise, we’ll catch the rain.

But I am a fool. A jealous man who swings from ropey greed, back and forth, the ever-tightening noose, pulled taut by the eyes that fall on you.

This is not suicide, but suicidal, doomed to the caverns of self-pity that howl and wallow to the stony existence of nobody in particular

echoing out into the valley, the valley, where the flush of rain draws near.

I can but put my hope in the hands of the wind, have faith in their power of change that so many times has swept me wrong.

But still, I’ll take my chances and pray for hurricane.

If you were to dust my skin for prints, who’s would you find? Or scan my chest for stolen hearts and dissect my lips for promises, how many are held there? This is a crime scene. Do Not Cross.

It’s the final note that lingers, caught in your hair and your clothes, holding on to the threads like the comforting smell of home. It’s the rounded roll of a lapping shore against the tiny whispers, as it washes in and out; a drug-like hush in a moonlit fade. It’s the breathing glow of embers, their orange hearts rise and fall like throbbing suns seen through the slats of a wooden door. It’s the rush of blood in a lover’s touch, the rosy blush of tender skin, the growing tide of heat within, and it’s the final note that lingers.