02252013

she said,

sometimes, i feel as though

i’m inhabiting someone else’s body.

i said,

and who, in the meantime,

is inhabiting yours?

02172013

on the pages clean of words,

agitation reigns.

what?

what of you?

what of your absence?

what of this whiteness?

what of your presence?

what of my aliveness?

after the sunrise,

came the storm.

it tangoed,

leaving its toeprints in the sand.

did i pretend to have the last word?

i am a confessional. i am a hand glass.

i am a hall of flawless mirrors.

one hundred thousand pages of confession,

you once wrote.

did i pretend to have the last word?

after the storm,

comes the sunrise.

come to me.

speak to me.

on the pages inked with words,

tranquility reigns.

02082013

after the sunrise...

let me drift

inside this river

sailing still as a grave

mummified in wordless time

bandaged in lightwaves

waiting for you

to come to me

to draw a window

on this face

to stroke

with tongue

with neck

with thumb

the keyholes of my eyes

to singe

with ardent breath

my static lips alive

02012013

she said,

i want to reveal the truth of who i am.

i want to break the darkness of me.

i said,

speak to blank paper;

no person will understand.

i said,

speak… and hope that the paper is not

too fragile for the gravity of your thoughts.

i said,

speak… and hope that the paper is not

too thin for the heft of your words.

i said,

speak… and hope that the paper does not

tear beneath the burden of thick ink.

speak… and hope,

i said.

but also know...

one word

can fill a page,

and once the words

are present… there…

black ink on white paper,

everything is here,

everything is now.