Tag: love

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.

a word

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.

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.

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

great migration

The season has come around again.
At this time of year,
It holds memories
of transformation.
I remember it was
When the hummingbirds left,
when they began their
Great Migration.
The air changed a little each day,
growing just a little cooler,
a little
cooler.
Before the hummingbirds left,
they returned,
Their wings a blur of motion.
“Give us the skins
you’ve shed,
the pasts
with no place here and now!”
they said.
We took off our skins and
layers of ourselves,
all the fragile surfaces
that took our breath,
that hid our eyes.
Then we let a stillness come.
A sense of calm where we could say,
“This is how I will remember you!”

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.