it’s the contact of the eyes.

a hand on the shoulder,

a palm on the back.

surely, by now you know

the marks you make

are indelible.

The crashing waves of grief
Come less often,
But an undercurrent of sadness
Is ever there.

Like the cold water
Beneath the warm surface
Of the gulf
On a spring day.

Chilling,
But not dangerous
In itself.
But there is always

The threat that an undercurrent
Becomes an undertow
Becomes a riptide
That sweeps you away

To some dark place
From which
You will never
Return.

My true spirit
alive…because
I am wild inside

To escape from the darkness;

  I feel so fragile to begin again 

as I experience the uncomfortable absence of life holding the dead corpses hand 

the most important part of the experience is to just give in,

  I want my heart to flutter;
I want my head to spin

as I stutter in the harmony, with a grin, of someone else effortlessly disarming me from within

We live in the central part of our old Kentucky home

The probability of the northern lights shining all the way down here is so very low

A geomagnetic storm made the seemingly impossible appear

Purple burned the sky aglow

We had no idea, sitting at the bar, laughing about hip-hop beef and asking each other, when you cut a sandwich, which way should the knife should go?

If I could go back, I don’t think – I know

I’d choose to keep sitting at that bar with you

The northern lights aren’t nearly as beautiful

As your smile

It’s my favorite show

Let’s write a poem. 
I’ll find my resting place. 

It’s Saturday,
the window’s open,
cars push by,

and I’ve had a good meal.

You said
“they can’t be lies if there’s a lil truth to ’em”
and
I guess you’re right
but
that definition never felt complete
just like the thing you sold me as love
no no matter how much 
“My cup runneth over”
with this so called love you pandered 
it was never enough 
to cash in 
For the prize of
your attention