I wrote her a book. She wrote me the world.
(After years of binding them shut
a single look in your direction
Untied my eye
lashes like a gift yet
unopened. Unfurling
tears just so
—like boats— my feet could set sail
towards that place where
my river and your ocean meet.
Where we could greet each other
every moment. With new waters.
Touching . Under the sheet of land.
Or even bare. Backs to the sky
brushing past one another
with no regards for the air that
wanted to steal me from the you
to whom I chose to bind.
because I wouldnt dare to leave.
yes the wind would come, and with the help of the sun
peel me apart
into droplets, and lift me so high
that I could touch god,
or kiss the stars… all
to bribe me to stay..
But when it was done..my eyes
that you opened, would see clear as the day
that
I could cry my way back down into your arms that I never left.
And nothing would be lost.)

I wrote her a book. She wrote me the world.
(a head full of curls more defined
than ever before.
Trees adorned in “leaves” that didnt want to sever ties
so they stayed through the “fall”
streets lined in signs that were all pointing for us to face
the undeniable fact that our paths
were both leading towards the same place on earth.
Unearthing heaven. Weeding out the perfections
that no longer needed to exist as fluff
replacing the pointless with seeds of our lessons
in love. Loving to give back to the ground
where we found ourselves planted together.
Kissing the star
fish that landed in our waters.
And the sand dollars
that the universe paid us
in wishes that we took as orders
to serve our purpose
as one whole measure
of the perfect musical composition that is life.
Because even through strife
and change, no matter the hand
or the musician that played
our tune, we would dance through each other
in harmony. We would bend into
and out of shapes. Shifting from one form
into another. Without any bit of space
ever falling between us. We would always fit.)

I wrote her a book. She wrote me the world.
(when you came you must have painted over everything.
All of color. All of time. Even the hands of the clock
have fled.
there is only black
and white.
And daisies left behind, growing through the canvas
of your unfinished work of art.
Vestigial parts of my life, falling away
as ordained by the blunt edge
of your brush.
Pursing its lips at my page.
Paying tribute to pains
not yet felt,
tipped off about shows
unscripted, just waiting
to be staged. Or tells untold waiting to be admitted onto my storyline…(sotheytoocouldunfold)
there are times that im not sure
who
is writing who
but I dont care
because I know it is both.
And I want you to know too
that I wrote you
a poem.
how ironic.. as if… every single word
that leaks out of my pen, and tight fists, and clenched teeth..everybitofairthatibreathe….
doesnt wreak of your undimming presence
in my soul.)