in
in dreams, my body
tells me things
i study you
my
my body feels so inadequate
so very
loved, yet
still so inadequate for this
in dreams
my body tells me things
my body tells
me in dreams
of things
my body is always primal
body
to hide pain or joy
or even joyful pain
or pleasure
body
tell me things
things
told to me
by my body
buds curl inward;
last year’s blossoms
fold in on themselves,
becoming memories.
only a
lilac tree could hold these lessons
with
such bold defiance.
blossoms
so close to blooming,
and last
year’s buds are only memories now
i have misunderstood
the plum
something so simple
something often overlooked
we feed each other slices
of sweet
ripe fruit
collecting the juice
with our tongues
and sucking out the flavor
from our lips
we taste both the fruit
and each other’s skin
this is our language
words don’t work for us
it feels primal
it feels perfect
this is all we want
sticky fingers and lips
and the pit we leave behind
rainwater pools
on
the field
reflect
the sky
and the setting sun
they glow with color;
from
one surface to another
crimson fading into violet
and then night falls.
i began to wonder
about the melody
you sang
then
the bird became
quiet
i dreamed last night.
i couldn’t find my pen.
wait, that’s not quite right.
i didn’t really lose it.
it was just hiding from me.
that’s different.
i couldn’t write anything.
my fingers felt tangled.
and without it,
nothing made sense
at all.
maybe this sounds confusing.
but it isn’t.
in my dream, i woke up
and saw the pen
was in my bed, and it had burst
now i was covered
in thick ink
that flowed over my body
and eventually into my mouth.
when i tried to speak,
i gurgled
and jumbled
and tangled thoughts
spilled out of my mouth.
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.
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.
i woke up to blue skies
and noticed how gently everything moved
as the pine trees swayed
out on the horizon.
my tea is black
rich and strong
i try to sip it slowly
the mug is hot
against my lips
i do not remember
if yesterday was the same
or if the day before
was any different
now, i’m not sure
if it even matters
today the sky is blue
tomorrow it might be
dark gray all the way to the horizon
and when the gray
stretches on and on without
any definition
i’ll remind myself it doesn’t matter
and that tomorrow
it might be deep cerulean
endless from the earth
to the heavens
When I was a child, I copied
the way you moved
and I would ask,
What should I call you?
I tried to find
a word I hadn’t
learned yet,
a word beyond
what a child could understand.
It was something unfamiliar,
Now, as an adult, I still
find myself asking,
What should I call you?
There are no gestures now.
I don’t understand
That’s what it means to grow older.
This is a shadow,
and this, too,
is part of life.
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