Remember Me as a Time of Day

Remember me as

the cold midnight air

and as the golden dawns reflected

in your Skyline Eyes.

Remember me when

the sun slips below the horizon

and breathed beauty into

the cold concrete world.

Remember me like

the clouds that fade out of the sky,

when the heat makes us feel alive,

as we sleep and smile and sit very still.

And I can look out the window towards the sunset and the skyline...

Your fingers in mine used to be so tangible.

Now they are nothing but the silver lace of ghosts; Divine reminders of what I have Loved, what I have lost.

Your fading presence faded my very existence--changing the bright and warm summer smiles into worn and sun-bleached photographs, tearful and empty keepsakes beneath my cigarettes and pens that have long since spent their ink on you.

The days with you, surrounded by yellow and sky-blue, have been washed by loneliness and transformed into barely-glowing nights. Holding your hand and grinning against your lips has changed into applying crimson lipstick alone in the moonlight, and singing in a broken voice to beautiful songs that aren't nearly as beautiful when you are not here.

I hate what you've done to me.
I hate the way you've changed me.
I hate that you're not with me.
I Love you.

I barely knew her.

I talked to her once, maybe twice. If that.

But like. So many of my friends were so, so close to her.

People shouldn't just die.

Love Poem.

With my hand in yours,
I am safe;
your hand is warm,
and white,
and smooth.
It smells like brown sugar
and it looks like those moths
that flutter in the moonlight--
those moths that look
like they are made from the moonlight.

Let me come with you,
and we can sit
on the floor,
and we can surround ourselves with candles.
We can give wings to the ceiling
and as the roof flies away,
we can wish on the stars
and watch the flower petals twirl
in the nighttime breeze.

She's Afraid of Everything

The floor is white,
bleached, worn,
coated with layers and layers
of sand and rose petals.
There's a table
with a typewriter
and a candle.
The roar of the waves
is almost deafening.
Loud enough to shut everything out,
quiet enough to fade into the daylight.
The window is open,
the moth-eaten curtains flying up
with the wind.
The door is open, too,
crooked on its hinges.

Slow Dancing In a Burning Room

The pale lights that lit us up,
shining and beautiful,
dimmed slowly.
The bows that held us together,
slick with silk and moonlight,
began to slip.

So we gritted our teeth
and ounraveled ourselves;
Lace fell to the floor,
ribbon cascaded towards the ground like a starry waterfall.

We sat in the bright heat of daytime,
praying for the glare to wash out
what we once struggled to see by starlight.

We forgot all the the complexities and rhythms that used to define us,
forgot the steps to the waltz we once waltzed.
We stripped it to its moon-flooded skeleton--
my hands barely touching your shoulders,
yours afraid to hold me close.

note: the title belongs to John Mayer

When he first discovered his dentures in the garden,

hidden amongst the pinks and blues
of roses and violets,
he put his hand to his forehead
and allowed himself a tear.
The disease,
he thought,
has finally taken a hold of me.

He walked out of the garden
and into his house,
dentures in hand,
feet shuffling slower with each step.

That night, the dentures
are placed neatly by the sink,
next to an empty bottle
that once held almost thirty
little white tablets.
The man is in his bed,
fingers still,
the corners of his mouth turned down,
breath nonexistent.

And as he lays,
and empty shell on his
wife's old comforter,
too lost and hopeless to continue,
the door to his house creaks open.
A boy, oblivious
to the sudden absence of life,
passes the bedroom door
on his way to the bathroom.
He stops by the sink.
Shoving aside the empty pill bottle,
he grabs the dentures and leaves quickly,
hiding them once again
in the garden--
amongst the pinks and blues
of roses and violets.

author's note: the first line/title, again, is not mine. it belongs to either Jack Driscoll or Bill Meissner.

As the moon showed its face--

washing the black-reds of roses
with muted and shifting shine--
the night flowers bloomed.
With starlight they glowed,
they glowed until the first fire of sunrise was sparked.

I have let my fingers turn to glass,

and they are cool and smooth
as they wipe tears from your face.
They glow like crystal
as they gesture for you
in the moonlight.
They are tight and desperate
as they cling to your wrist,
keeping you from leaving
as the sun comes up.
And as you go,
wrenching your arm from my grasp,
my fingers shatter.
Luminescent shards litter
the nighttime ground
as I stand, silent,
watching you run towards the sunrise.
I realize, as the pain in my chest
mirrors the pain in my had,
that my fingers are not
the only thing that you have broken.




author's note: the first line/title isn't mine. it was written by Jack Driscoll / Bill Meissner.

You're not afraid of dying, Love.

You just know,
like I know,
that it forces you into permanence.
You are forever what you were in that moment;
forever suspended in that last breath;
forever remembered for those last words.
You're not afraid of dying, Love.
Just terrified that it will take you by surprise.
The only thing to do, really,
is to have every second be permanent,
every moment be forever.
You wouldn't be afraid of dying, Love,
if you knew that it was this,
right now,
watching the sunset
and holding my hand
and listening to the ocean waves.

s e s t i n a .

I can see your hands
shaking in the moonlight.
Not from the cold though, I don't think.
They shake because you're afraid
that morning is too far away,
that you'll never really see the sun.

I am miles away, in the sun.
The heat is weakening my hands,
and the cool blue of nighttime is fading away.
I miss the forgiving glow of moonlight,
the way it makes me less afraid,
the way it gives me space to think.

You close your eyes, trying not to think,
trying to squint and see the sun,
trying not to be afraid.
The freezing air numbs your hands,
and you try to warm them in the moonlight.
But whenever warmth comes, the night chases it away.

You want nothing more than to run away,
but before you do, stop. Think.
Do you really want to hide from the moonlight?
Will anything be easier in the sun?
Maybe the light will calm your hands,
but maybe the glare will just make you afraid.

You're not the only one that's afraid,
that lives for the idea of going away.
You're not the only one with frozen hands.
And even though you're scared to think
of never seeing the sun,
maybe you're better off in the moonlight.

I'll lay with you, in the moonlight,
and together, we won't be afraid.
When the night ends, we can stare at the sun.
We'll run away,
not stopping to think.
We'll run into the dawn, holding hands.

When you're afraid, imagine the sun.
Wish away your icy hands,
and don't think of anything but moonlight.

The fastest I've ever seen you walk was when you were walking away.

Flying, almost, you tore open clouds and they trailed behind you, pink and tangerine, colored by the sun's goodbye. Your goodbye was just as beautiful, filled with frozen tears and rose petals whirling through the air.

And as you walked into the flaming dusk, sparks flying behind you and the sun's fire ahead, you left me cold. Snowflakes fell into my eyelashes and were melted by tears as I sat, shivering in the night's cold lace.

The starlight was all you left behind, pulsing and blindingly white, but still too far away to touch.

And as you fly towards twilight, your transparent wings whistling through the crimson air, just remember that I'm watching your silhouette, blurred by the saltwater in my eyes; the saltwater sticking to my cheeks because you're not here to wipe it away.

When people look at you,

their eyes mist
and their skin tingles,
and their cheeks glisten with the heat of their tears.
As you strum your heartbeat,
mine matches yours,
and my heart shakes my body.
My hair flies up,
and my hands fly with it.

Jade green and moon white,

her eyes searched the twilight.
She didn't know what for,
but she found you:
a point of light,
shining and struggling.
A star in a snowstorm,
gorgeous, exploding.

There was a way

you could reach through silence,
diamond dust and Love feathers,
fireworks of words and feelings.
You were my sunlight;
when you focused on me
I glittered
and smiled.
And when salt fell from your eyes,
my cheeks were wet
and it was like we were the same.
It make me beautiful and brilliant
and alive and in Love.
I miss you, Lovely.
I miss my reflection.

We sat on a white bench

under a willow tree,
remember?
And you held my hand as we watched
the roses unfold.
One day, when there was a cloud in the shape of a rose,
you brought scissors with you,
to the bench,
remember?
And you bent over, so your cornsilk hair fell in your eyes,
and cut the prettiest rose out of the ground.
You sat until dusk, peeling the thorns
from the stem, and when you pricked your fingers,
the blood was red as roses.
You gave me the thornless rose,
remember?
And you said that it reminded you
of me,
and you said that if I unfolded,
like the rose,
I would put the roses to shame.
Remember?
And when I did unfold, like a rose,
you kissed me until our lips were roses,
and our fingers were scissors
as we stripped each other of thorns.

The tears travel down your cheeks,

coloring and crystallizing your skin.
Your eyes brighten, a delicate turquoise against
your lashes, and your face tilts
to meet a sky of the same color.
Lose yourself in the flawless horizon
as you back unfolds into wings,
shimmering and feathered with frost.
Raise your star-white arms
above your golden head
and fly fly fly
up into the brilliance.

they made snow angels in the gold of the setting sun.

It's Really Not So Cold

The raindrops were glassy,
soaking my hair
and dripping down
from your eyelashes.

And as your hand found mine,
warm and soft as
candle-lit ivory,
my umbrella flew into the gray
on glistening wings,
and my jacket turned to sunlight.