for the singer with the cyanide eyes

 

Maybe this
winter
will be easier;

maybe there is hope beyond frost;
maybe our breath will jut
in steamy tomorrows

across a river that never
freezes; maybe your dreams will dream yet
tachycardic, wild and blue,

like the pulse of the ocean,
muffling the deaths that lie spread-
eagled across decades,

hissing obscenities
under the bedspread, the deaths
that smell ever-so-softly

of overripe promises,
understated like
magnolia blossoms

at the end of summer…
like secrets for a December
no man has seen.

two and a half thoughts on love

(part 3 of 3)

Weary and milk-mild i stand
ankle-deep in wet sand, each
footprint a burden more than the last
as i head away from the solace
of heavy waters and
back toward solid ground.
And yeah, this road has a heartbeat,
hums with the rhythm of some gypsy dance
lost to the world centuries ago…

But i’ve
run up somehow on the sidewalk,
lost control of fortune’s wheel and now
the stones you’ve thrown into the gears
make it hard
to start any fire at all;
glass shards like stars
sparkle
across cheeks who’ve
seen too many streams of blackest mascara
raining in through a late
autumn night;
meanwhile steam rises
out from under the hood
like the ghost of a lover
i thought i’d forgotten,

wish i
could forget.

I tell myself i’m happy,
unfold myself from the driver’s seat
and start walking; maybe,

Maybe this winter
will be easier than the last,
holding hope beyond the frost;
maybe my breath with steamy
tomorrows will dream yet
in tachycardia, untame and
headstrong like the pulse
of the ocean…

Maybe.
But let’s
keep this between us as
these are secrets
for a December
that no man yet has seen.