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?
shadow work
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.
when winter
folds
and
spring behaves
i’ll be
at your door
but not a teardrop
before
you emerge from
grave.
“we’ll step into
stars
and dread not their
brightness,”
said shielding
our eyes
for fear we may
like it.
an enchanting song
of slumber
found me
combating its tow,
unready
for surrender
into dreams
unknown.
must have read
this passage
a hundred
times
before what you
shared
sunk
in
like sun
into unsettled lake
at first throb
of dusk.
you helped me
disappear
when i couldn’t stand
my own sight,
so i danced
invisible
in time’s harsh
spotlight.
hands in the garden 
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