you run gentle fingers across My Ink
lines and scribbles of my heart
suddenly make sense.
they’re notes, and i read them.

What does it mean to live a life
and dream of These Quiet Nights
side by side?
to find someone of your voice even once?
your music taste same as mine.
not just what i enjoy, for i enjoy a lot.
not just what i would dance to in passing,
for i dance a lot.

a melodious coffee cake not too sweet,
with aftertaste amiss
your eyes the same amber as mine
if we’re lucky, under certain light we might even see
your iris swirls of collapsed star a nebulous silence hungry and shouting

In the pause before you respond to a question i ask
(questions often unrelated
to anything or anyone at hand)
i smile. i know in a just few ticks of time,
i’ll feel full body with just your voice
with echo that lasts until sunrise
with notes of forever
or at least Tuesday
for who needs Wednesday
when we have right now?

on monday
i fell in love with the color green
the way the leaf half-covers the sky
the way my toe sinks in bed

sometimes i dont like kissing you
it traps our endless rivers
irreverent clouds
between two liquid lips

all i do is sleep later and later
in the last 48 hours
i have been consumed with thoughts of your touch

like rust to uncoated steel
like wave to sancastle

our city is hazy this morning
we stop by your favorite breakfast stall
a quick hug goodbye paired with a smile
“text me?” i say
and i walk an hour home.

the sky is clear.
Problem is, I cant see from under the surface.
Nor can I see over heels

it's almost dawn, and the tide is rising
fingers dance to Ocean's gentle wind
toes nestle between ridges of sand
as for heart, well,
my heart lost to the waves themselves.
as i breathe,
the longing and hope and despair
comes and goes.
in this manner i lay here for hours,
quiet and sinking.
Ocean herself pushes and pulls
me, herself, my drenched body.
I watch Moon fall as i fall with her.

my heart, or where my heart should be
feels different — perhaps a star has collapsed
i feel a churning, round and around
a nebula to another is forming
the momentum has picked up now

the love is overflowing now
i need to let it out
wash you in kisses, twiceover
let your body relax, scream, shake

but instead i am here,
alone, on this beach.
a star in your constellation,
a night out with Moon and Ocean.

you prefer pencil, you always have.
gradient light is spilled liquid
light of no gender, neither do we.
line by line you direct chaos to your liking.
for you, you decide. you decide
the fate of when graphite ends.
how deep shadows are, the wind you hold
along small arch of your back.

the peace of pen, for me,
is the weight body carries.
we shoulder consequences of ink.
i create gradient in black and white
no grey, no color, no minute sands.
just touch or not touch, it’s quite simple really,
it’s a choice we made.

and we chose us.

this poem is not about you.

i fell for the idea of you, after all;
or rather, ideas of you, from you.

for your mind bleeds ichor
dipped in River Black for contrast.
your body merely an easel
for your hand, a vessel
for your graphite, shadow
upon shadow to your liking.

A stunning portrait:
“You More Than You.”
20 x 23.
Ichor on Paper.

perhaps i just need a touch on the shoulder to steady myself.
perhaps i just need a night where
we forget all else and we're
just us,
just now.

when we left that cafe
we left ourselves behind

untamed wind! beckoning to none.
it was our world, we were the artists
the world was colored and shaded to our liking
nothing could ground us.

until we left that cafe
on the second floor
on that quiet street

aren’t we late,
for a date with the moon?

we tend to this kindling
hoping embers grow to flames
long lasting and seen through valleys of mountains
everlasting and evercloser

The pinks and yellows remind me of what love is,
or what it should be.
or maybe just a love so short

I didn’t have a chance
to accidentally hurt you.
like i typically do.

sometimes we discuss
the infinite wisdom of stars,
or how inevitable waves are

sometimes we conjure intricate curves
of feminine strength and masculine delight
shaded by falling moon

sometimes we just doodle flowers
and laugh until rising sun
Goodbye, my Moon.

We knew we’d run out of night by April dawn.
But I’m not hungry for breakfast
or Ocean’s Fate just yet.
So can we just tend to our
fading star just a bit longer.

when you return home
you paint. if not, then what else?
twenty portraits, in fact, drawn
again and again
as you remake yourself
to become yourself

when I return to my home
far too far from yours
I write twenty poems
one for each day I loved you.
I remiss this time, this place, this us.
arrangement of consonants
glued by melody of vowels

Ink will not dilute like my mind does
But always a poorly rendered imitation
not even close to what it felt like
to be next to you.

this latest one is called
“What is love but intentional desire?”

sometimes i feel this young eye
will only cataract with time
like shower door blurs, like aging blade dulls
not something that glasses will fix
perhaps if i knew how to fight it i would

one day
i'll lay down my brush
and draw the line that never ends
i'll follow soft curve of my breasts
down to my chipped pinky toe

ink black as night
visible in sunrise that lasts forever
where lonely clouds
change shape, form
borrow each others colors
but hide when sun slips above skyline

brush will lift at times,
almost lift off canvas
but hang on, even if by a single thread

my forever line will reach sky where no
bird has dared venture
or died
here i will fall
fall like a leaf like arrow like i do

its 5 am.
i share quiet solitude
with love stories that began last night
but not mine

it's 5 am. wake up. its time to live
the shadows are only getting shorter
good morning my moon
say hi to her for me, will you?

it's summer now
the days are longer
and our texts are shorter

i cant quite remember
the way your face felt
when i traced my fingers
from the top of your nose
across your forehead
and lingered on your cheek

eroded bodies
are often forgetful, aren't they?

Your kiss lingers. The taste of sky blue with a hint of green Valley.

This moment must end, like all the others. I think the ends of moments are quite beautiful, actually. In ending moments we can decide, with absolute certainty, that this is a moment worth ending. We don’t mark ends of what is not significant to us, after all. A cute little bow wraps up what was the best surprise present, soon to be passed on from day to day as a photo. Woven into a book, even. Perhaps colors will fade but certainly not by much. A memory is a gift to tomorrow me, a goodbye is proof these nights carried weight of truth.

Besides, it brings me comfort to know the temorariness of this few seconds, the end of this fantastical adventure, means I can’t hurt you anymore. Or perhaps this goodbye is the last time I hurt you. Is this a cowardly thing to admit? Most definitely. But I am facing the reality of who I am, how I need to change, and I am simply hoping we meet again under the right circumstances, where I am a better person - incomplete and still as emotional as always, sure, but better. Just a better person than who I am now. And in that moment I know we will see the new moon together.

when we last kissed
we shared a street corner
it was raining ever so slightly
your body slipped through my hands
and it was a quiet fall
just like before

you whispered in my ear
“you’ve left carvings
and inscriptions on my soul”

my heart broke in that moment
for the second time that month.

carvings and inscriptions
are for archeologists to find
carvings and inscriptions
are to be buried under well written sediment
layered and folded and creased
poem after poem after poem

“good night,” I reply.
“I’ll see you tomorrow”

Problem is,
Midnight Rain Washes All
And I particularly love the colors of today’s sunset.

But I leave anyways. I must. I check my bags for
charger, phone, water bottle
but i never looked to take
our silent moments and shared stories
those are intentionally left behind
for us to find in a year or maybe
we’ll leave it up to the archeologists.