time

This is time.
Cedar shingles
tell the story of seasons,
weathered and gray.
an unasked question.
a hint of passion
left unresolved.
Time heals
in scattered pieces.
Small fragments
of a face
once kissed and
now forgotten.
Time is a name,
one called out
in a dream
and unanswered in
waking life.
This is time.
a boy full of innocence
becoming a man
far too soon,
holding steady,
offering shelter,
holding words.
Time hasn’t moved,
only the distance
from my fingertips
to yours,
from my mouth
to your body.
This is time.
a face
aged by life,
wrinkled and worn,
with eyes
that burn with
fearful intensity.
a gift given by time,
Only by time.

unseen

you are gone,

time cannot hold on to what it once held.

you’ve seen this before,

somewhere

we were together here,

just like lovers are,

unseen by anyone.

you drift away,

lost in dreams.

gone

but time still brings you back.

lovers remain in time,

in dreams.

memories still kept close.

you and i,

lovers kept in time.

almost memories

i have not entered the room

where

we devoured each other.

where our

bodies feasted upon each other

with desire,

and hunger.

light enters

and casts shadows

that shift across the floor.

a gentle breeze, soft as breath,

stirs up echoes.

i hear faint sounds

that are almost voices,

almost words,

almost memories.

scent

the thin
smoke curled.

It rose from the chimney,
just so.

the wind carried the scent of
your hair

and with it
the colors of evening.

geese

snow melts

geese fly overhead

their wings

a steady pattern

they call out to each other

as they continue their journey

heading toward a destination

and leaving another place

questions linger

questions fade

the steady pattern of wings

scent of skin

the scent of skin
soft light falls gently
across an arched
body
that shifts
beneath my touch

of becoming

shadows

of hands reaching

to face

of naked flesh

of hands to body

of being

and of becoming

the language

I speak a foreign language.

It feels like there are endless syllables and countless vowels,
And I speak it alone.

All I want is to feel good in my body and connect with someone else.

But I feel tangled
in a language that only I seem to understand.

When I speak, it feels heavy in ways I can’t describe.
It brings out meanings I never meant.

I kept my desire for pleasure and true connection to myself,
afraid of how much
my words might weigh on someone.

Then gentle fingers touched my lips and quieted the sounds.

A mouth met mine and took my words away.

Every syllable and vowel slowly faded.

As each sound lingered,
A voice, speaking my language, said,

I hear you.
I know your intentions.
I understand.
Speak without fear.
Speak honestly and

rest here, open and true

free from worry.

my longing for physical pleasure
and the sense of real connection came back.

With the language we both understand,
the language we share together,
We can show each other who we really are.

We will trace letters with our tongues,
and with soft breaths on our necks, we will write our stories.

the snow

The snow
had fallen overnight.
I was asleep.
I was away.
Somewhere far away.
Why always
away?

empty air

How does my breath
get taken by yours?
When I speak,
you seem to draw out the marrow
from my words.
If my words come from fear,
you take in the shadows.
If they come from longing,
then I am left holding only
the remains of desire.
Is this
how we share?
Breath at the core,
yet I am
grasping at empty air.