Perhaps the poems I write for you are what my fingers trace
While following the scars upon a heart I can’t erase
The Morse code of the tapping tears that travel down your face
And so do I decipher them like sad binary code made from the burns of cigarettes and tattered lace

Perhaps the poems I write for you are raindrops in the wind
A book of lightning letters in the veins upon your skin
The prayer I wouldn’t say because for you I would’ve sinned
And so I search for you in all the words already written and inaccurately write them all again

Perhaps the poems I write for you or pressed upon your cheek
A record that my fingers play forever on repeat
The lines upon your lips that, when you’re silent, seem to speak
And so I deconstruct them into sentences and phrases like a secret that my heart could never keep

Perhaps the poems I write for you are what I choose to see
The memory of photographs that never came to be
The parts of you that led me to the better parts of me
And so I seek to paint them as a portrait of tommorow in the shades of every lost apology



You shifted like a sheet of silk
And called to my attention like a tiny golden bell
Left ringing a tower
Or a fragile, crystal flower
Winding slowly through the bower
To an opening where feathers slowly fell

From angels who had yet to soar
For, even now, they watch and wait and pray to see you there
With fingers long and slender
And their hearts forever tender
Offered forth in soft surrender
In the hope to be a ribbon in your hair

You drifted like a feather lost
And beckoned me to follow like a compass made of June
In lands of weary winter
Where the sun was but a splinter
From a door I couldn’t enter
To an opening where night was not immune

From little stars you left behind
When up and up you went and left your tower in the mist
And so I set to climbing
To the memory of chiming
From a bell that kept it’s timing
In the hope to be a ribbon on your wrist


I met a girl from yesterday that wore, as if reflections in her eyes,
The halo of a melting sun
Behind a grinning moon
So, in a sea of little coffee cups where books are a disguise
I heard, but also felt, as none
Could feel except when swept away by little paper notes of never, maybe, soon

Where distances were moments set between the soft facade of never – more
And music – even missing so –
Was made of lyrics still
Just like a faded, old impression left behind when pages tore
So that I needn’t see to know
That all departures were impermanent from there where ever – more was really real

I told her of tomorrow – but here eyes, they only saw the day before
Like silver crowns and banners blue
And palisades of chance
With gentle arms around the fair that should exist in love and war
I felt, but also heard anew,
The song her somber heart was playing as if asking me if I would like to dance

And there between the islands made of coffee cups and half-remembered books
Where people spoke, but rarely heard
How could I not but rise
As if a leaf within the wind that never cared just how it looks
For she had stolen every word
And my tomorrow, all the same, the girl with yesterday still shining in her eyes


What can I say in prayer when she, it seems, is all the aura of the moon?
And burns as if a candle in the darkest room of night
So much I wonder, if before I knew her name, I knew of sight
As if my heart was made of thread, and she was nothing short heaven’s only loom

Upon her brow a crown that not an element in life could truly forge
Nor could a hundred million hands with all the time to spare
Or all the alchemists in all the world to lay the circuits bare
She is a queen within a palace in a land beyond the sea, beyond a gorge

What can I say in poetry for she who has a soul that is a sun
That lights a universe but sees herself as but a spark
When, to my eyes, she is a flare when all the world is cold and dark
And, from her lips, a simple word would see my soul, for her, as won

As if I were a crown, or else a pendant, or a ring for her to wear
Or just a bit of flint to light the candle of her day
Or else a hand upon her shoulder when her fears have gone astray
Or just the words, “I’ll always love you,” whispered in a way that only she can hear


Where did we fall when both we held to rain and rode the droplets to the earth?
When winds, in their assertions
Swept umbrellas from our fingers
‘Til on desert winds of warm desertion
Did we, like the notes from singers
Hope the hurricane was not a death, but just a song of new rebirth?

And did we clutch too longingly like thumbs on reddened eyes that echo tears?
And beg for but a mention
Of a thought of some tomorrow
Where the winds we tried to call redemption
And the light, we needn’t borrow
Like a loan made out of yesterdays we tried to sign away with years?

When did we turn to hours as if pillows neath a head of weighted words?
Where sleep was by attrition
And our waking was in folly
To a day of dread and cold admission
Set upon our hearth as holly
Did we press our lips to feathers as if want could turn us into birds?

Or did we just imagine that a dream of yew and aye could be a sea?
Where clipper ships and galleys
Were the years we tried to capture
Like a peakĀ in this, a world of valleys
Something more than simple rapture
Did we shackle these, our wrists of want, to promises of “Maybe it could be?”


We hold to it like spider webs
The spiraling that aches to breathe when air is like a knife
And there we watch like metaphors
In sentences we wove as if a tide that slowly ebbs
Where hearts are sailing in a world where still our feet are set ashore
As if a movie that we made, for every day, but not this life

Through fingers, like it’s wire barbed
And made to be the tourniquet to keep the worst at bay
Like commas in a world of woes
To put a pause in places where, on poison, do we starve
As if a banquet made of briars in a court of cawing crows
Until we speak, but cannot seem to look away

From all the strands that never were
Like phantoms in the orchard where we fought for rotting plums
And fed on old decisions made
Like meaning in a minuet when feet were so unsure
Beneath a moon of missing moments and the stars that always stayed
While filling glasses to the brim with so much love it starts to numb

Our fingers and the words between
The little suspirations that are left like trailing dots
On sentences we tried to change
So many times the meaning disappeared and what was seen
Was some amalgamate of words that from our lips, they seem estranged
And what we meant, we just pretend that we forgot

But still we hold like gossamer
The messages and moments in a box made out of keys
And storing all the parts of I
When all the tides were wild with the hopeless thoughts of her
Who was a quill or else a vial neath the end forever nigh
When in the web, I linger on, as if a spider weaving words like a disease




So compasses have broken
Like a glass of old champagne we meant to drink
And left within our palms as if the last remaining token
Of a carnival of sand that needs to sink
Into the what’s and why’s we squander

We walk the weary bridges
And the catacombs and tombs and holy grounds
Where all the trails we knew have worn away to naught but ledges
Where the days we shouldn’t keep are always found
And, in our dreams, we yearn to wander

So maps have finally failed us
Like the courage in a cup we cast aside
And smiles are the elegies of failure that regale us
When we see so many shadows that we’ve shied
But never stopped to really ponder

In places that we never
Meant to tread, but here we are, and thus remain
Where all we know is heaviness in cords we fear to sever
In the absence that has left us none the same
And only made the heart grow fonder