For somebody I used to know.

red is his heart,
blue is his soul,
green is his eyes.

with his hands, fragile and bony, he creates the world on a fresh quilted canvas.
with every blink, his focused gaze captures snapshots of what he wishes to keep tucked under his skin.

what he sees, what he feels
leak out through his fingertips
in reds and blues and greens.

For missing the perfect moment,

blank sheet,
you're about as empty as my head these days.
i've been waiting for something to hit me like a knife in the back - maybe that'll spark some inspiration.
anything would help, but my minds been translucent.

an idea slips in one ear so swiftly, so unnoticed,
like an eager hummingbird secretly singing to be seen.
it floats around my brain, giving me that anticipated tingle that creeps down to my left hand, ready to pounce on paper.

but then it's gone,
short lived with no trace of ever being inside me at all.

i must've blinked too quick;
the hummingbird got away.

For a year in the making,

i dreamt your face,
when the harsh heat would get to my head at night.
we were so longing,
yet so simultaneously unavailable.
the rare exchange of weightless words kept us hanging on,
hoping on one day to spark a fire.

i recognized your face,
when the leaves had fallen beneath our nervous toes.
the innocence still existing,
lingering somewhere between our beating chests.
we tangled ourselves up in the exact knots we'd been waiting to tie.

i needed your face,
when the once lit fountain had frozen still.
we waited, we fought the time and distance.
but before envy green and piercing blue eyes met,
we began to thaw.
the insecurities leaked all over the empty pages and blank canvases.

i saw your face,
when the flowers bloomed as revealing as your hushed tones.
no words that escaped my gaping mouth could ever form forgiveness.
your sun was no shelter,
and no longer will it shine again on my rain drenched face.

another four seasons gone,
but one lessons been learned,
etched forever into my skin:
seeing really is believing.

For old faces making a new impact,

i've found you shattered on the ground,
heart beating in tune with mine.
impatient, detached, pondering.
you've showed me light at the end of the tunnel,
the tunnel of twirling secrets, and unkempt actions.
this may be an ugly road,
but i'm enduring it no longer alone.
a new breeze under my shaky steps,
a fresh push on my back.
support you i will,
as you follow the same path as i.
i just found a friend in one of those lies,
and truth in that friend.

For old habits taking a second chance,

April Eleventh.

It's 10:46 am and I've gotten back into coffee.
Fourth cup this week for the first time in months.
I'm not used to the jitters yet,
So I've got a latte stained hand and the table is dripping.
It's raining pretty hard,
Everyone's got busy schedueles,
But I don't worry.
The books are my friends,
The pens are the weapons in my shaky hands,
Fighting the blank pages.
I might be returning to old habits,
But I think its too early to tell.
My heads getting clogged,
With an unjustified reason.
Mix the caffeine,
Allergies,
Too little zoloft,
And I've got the sinus pressure of a writer getting through the block.
I'm chiseling it off,
Piece
By
Piece.
With rain; my favorite of all weather,
My reconnection with coffee,
My anticipation of the next slip to be saved by this very notebook,
and potentially my tiny Ativan,
I'm on my way to the core.

For my hypomania,

Voices resound from each side,
The quiet begins to overwhelm.

I.
Her ear is pressed to the crack between door and frame:
His hand slowly glides off the handle, back turned.

She waits for noise
He waits for silence.

Someone might be waiting to crawl towards the hole in his chest;
Someone might just want to pass through her.

Push and pull;
A hand grabs the doorknob
as the other jerks it back into their pocket.

II.
Maybe they could push open the heavy hearted door at the exact same moment,
but nothing will be on either side,
nothing ever is.
And if so, what purpose do
locks
and empty doorways,
and windows
serve?

III.
We put up walls,
since the idea of space in entirely too infinite.
We need to know boundaries,
need to feel protected,
which overrules our need to wander outside the lines.

If we know what is on the other side of our walls,
Why do we close up every inch of what we can see straight through?

IV.
She knows he's there, but not for long:
He knows she's not leaving.
What meaning can they infer from that,
From a bursting
Bleeding
Barely beating
Fragmented heart?

The wall can be three miles thick,
But the door will always be torn down by one simple breath.

V.
She inhales:
He exhales.

For the weathers control on us,

Stale branches stay still, glued to the air as the translucent breeze slips between the month old leaves.
The early march sun beats down so gently onto the melting snow piles.
Some touched by innocent animal footprints,
Some untouched, looking as pristine as they fell days before this.
The suns reflection off the white and soggy earth forces eyelids shut.
Something about the slightly warming breeze gives hope,
That a new season is just beneath the heaps of slush and frozen rose pedals.
It’s coming out;
Through the peaking patches of green and dripping lawn furniture.
We can almost taste the new air,
Brushing against our uncovered arms,
Giving us a chill that no longer sinks deep within.
It lingers ever so sweetly on our skin that has been thickening these past years,
Awaiting to peel away in the months to come.
A winter so cold calls out for a spring so warm.
And underneath these snowflakes
We reside;
Waiting for tomorrow’s morning to heat through these layers we’ve collected
Stripping us bare
Because isn’t that what yesterday is here for?
You can’t open your eyes to the sky when they’ve been closed to the ground.
We change with the seasons, and that’s the only constant that never falls out of line;
Because the clocks still tick,
The breeze still blows,
The sky still sweats,
You’re still you,
And I,
Still me.