Almost

I almost wish you didn't kiss me,

in that ancient bunk bed,

that made me hit my head.

I almost wish you didn't touch me,

in such a practiced way,

that no words can even say.

I almost wish you hadn't held me,

or ran those fingers down my spine,

while we were intertwined,

and I drank your love like wine,

as we let our lips align,

knowing all along, you won't be mine.

I almost wish it never happened,

that I could take back all the kissing,

because now I know what I'll be missing.

I almost wish I could rewind,

sit back, and safely fantasize,

except that means never having you at all.

The Box

You brought me flowers,

you picked yourself,

Or sometimes roses,

Off the shelf.

Painted watercolor hearts,

and wrote me stupid rhymes.

You were just about as stupid,

but I didn't know at the time.

I don't miss your caveman feet.

Thank you, inventor of socks.

I put away the things you gave to me,

and labeled it "The Asshole Box."

That... was in a fit of passion,

So I kind of apologize.

I guess, for a while there,

You were a pretty decent guy.

In fact, you have plenty of fans,

though I can't say I understand the hype.

Months later, what can I say?

Mom warned me about "the romantic type".

Puppetry

We wove our world into a web,

a blanket covering our bed,

and inside us, threads ran through,

just as veins and sinews do.

We strung together everything;

our past and future and in-between,

and took and wound it 'round a spool,

with singularity somehow dual.

Each hour spent in my room,

more yarn was added to our loom,

and if we ever had a glitch,

we closed the snag with one more stitch.

There are times, we'll both admit,

that there were skeins we didn't knit,

and all the strands that we forgot,

snaked themselves into a knot.

Oh what a matted mess we found,

when thinking all was tightly bound.

I try to understand, but it's a blur,

how you began to feel like Gulliver.

Now as you start to rip the seams,

and wake up from all our dreams,

there's a string on a finger,

that says you must remember.

You move as if you're unattached,

with her, appearing better matched.

Though Gulliver returns to travel,

our memory will not unravel.

I sewed my rips and tears,

and the rest, only time repairs.

I keep in mind, though heart mangled,

That you will never be untangled.

The Final Flame

As sound as the sun,

You would arrive in my sky,

to bring up the flowers,

and to dry my eyes.

Soon sporadic as a storm,

on a humid summer's day,

You were there and gone,

drowning out what I'd say.

The winds took me away,

and when I returned,

You were only embers,

for the fire had burned.

Enough to extinguish the sun,

by the way that it blew,

but the eye of the storm,

is watching someone new.

Though our hearth is cold,

Love inscribed your name;

in a chamber of my heart,

burns one eternal flame.

Trainwreck Ticket

Give me a piece of paper,
That reads “Admit One,”

for my Concert Hall Savior.
He’s shaken hands with the sun.

Give me my own kind of shelter,
built of my own steel walls,
a new place of worship,
like the concert halls.

In those steel walls go,

to admit one outlet there,

and do Give me a stereo,
to make decibels of my cares.

Make screens of my eyes,
and electrify my soul.
Make cords of my veins,
and sound waves of my blood.

Now I’m all plugged in,
With a volume dial tourniquet,
Shocking my words into fuses.
Music, pray I won’t short circuit.

Blank Milk Carton

There is no need tonight,
to send out the blood hounds.
Let us lose the tracks of Time,
and the very scent of struggle.

Without a pack to follow,
we may start to confound,
the paths and the reasons,
leaving behind all once so simple.

Let us not become bewildered,

in our wild wilderness.
Traveling an untouched trail,
we see only what our eyes desire.

There is no need this morning,
to send out a search party,
Or to lose your sleep over us,
when you find us to be missing,

We will find our own way,

through getting lost.

Snow Suffocation

Arriving white as a Lily's petal,

but consuming her warm breath;

Indiscriminate, where it may settle,

extinguishing all within its breadth.

Coming with the wind, as ships behave,

traveling even whiter than a sail,

and whiter than the crest of any wave,

in the most frigid currents, it prevails.

Bringing no fruits or favors from distant seas,

only a bitter end to all in its path,

and its approach bares no sympathies,

in the endless winter's wrath.

Arriving white as a Lily flower,
but not so kind or sweet a scent.

There is a finality in its power,

a greed in its taking, never does repent.