behind the
screen
i don’t
tan,
rather, my skin
sheens
blue
like lonely
skies
do.
rhyme
heed my lone prayer on
sunday morning
and i’ll carry
you to
bed,
never fully
knowing
why you choose to
guard your
speech,
quiet ‘tween the
creases,
your breath still
on my teeth.
i concede
i love your sound
but can’t coax you
to sing now,
you turn from the
microphone
as though you
stand here all alone.
in
becoming,
you’ve shed
debris
and found your
place
despite stark
cold,
growing
cozy
as time gets
old.
only vulnerable
at times
to
you,
eyes wide with
insight
peering through.
be my last
dance
in the flame
room,
won’t let your
plush hair
brush the
dirt,
should we flee
in time
to escape
night,
may we find
our truth
or
worse?
hidden in the cracks
between cracks–
feeling crammed
into each
gap,
ticking down lost
seconds
as captive of
self-set
trap.
dear strung out
operator,
might you spare
the time
to listen with your
heart on..
be my belated
valentine?
the tap of cool rain upon
my forehead
soothes all aches
from past
winters,
boarded up in
rooms half
my size
while
snow angels
formed outside.
needed to
write
what my mind
couldn’t
face,
on a day so sunken
and devoid of
grace,
thus i throw up my
hands in the
hopes you
relate
and purge
such
before my word
bubbles
deflate.
hands in the garden 
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