wishing i could hold
your history,
not that it’d seal each
wound left,
by ones who hadn’t
mopped up
regrets
still seeping from
your chest..
all over
mine.
rhyme
crimson of the
leaves-
symbolic of
blood..
from the heart of
a tree,
i’m raking up
floods.
when i
dread questions
the answer’s
in my
eyes
where i cannot
hide.
a hunter’s
moon
halts us within
her sights–
she aims and fires
with focused
might,
we take the hit,
and thank her for it.
if my shallow framing
of your truth
requires more
than a little readjusting,
bend
the borders
and step forth
to correct
me
where arrogance
gets the best
of me.
flannel hugs and
hot cocoa..
and we both
know
it’s you that fills
my cup,
lips meet
chalked with sugar..
another comfort
i won’t
give
up.
Footprints
were you to
believe,
could you trust
enough
to know you’re
loved
in ways no one
else has
been?
and though you’ve shouldered
life’s pain
the marks you’ve
left on the
map
are not
coffee stains.
past countless corners
turned,
through the filthiest
years i’ve
learned..
that wiping hands
on my jeans
never
leaves them clean.
in silence i
lost you
to a desire
for distraction,
then after dancing ’round
buffers for what
seemed like
forever
we eased into the
absence of
words,
“whatever you
do..”
she said,
“don’t get stuck in
their heads,
why crave such possessive
attention?”
“don’t need to inhabit
dead space..”
she said.
hands in the garden 
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