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Point Reyes on Christmas"Wear your overcoat," you teased and so I did, the salty one stitched with seabreeze and constellationsPoint Reyes on Christmas
and an inner pocket for lip balm. Driving up I glimpsed you dancing on the sand then clambering onto impossible crags
where it seemed the lighthouse beacon would never reach, but it did and I smiled despite the clutching in my stomach.
I hadn't imagined it being awkward like a first date where the cologne wafts past and the instant of kissability
falls into my lap where the napkin and tablecloth edge linger, and yet here it was, the crossing of the Pacific and
by ~breathheld
DensityTell me, lover, how the flooded sky peals the soul's vengeance,Density
the churning of autumn and echoing footfalls on the stairwell
with dusk tasting like our kisses in their eager, sanguine (bittersweet) youth.
Fearful of depths, I fled your embrace to fall swooning, each glance a brush of laden finishing, a heart-heresy.
Yesterday I sealed the last box, wiping my brow and wearing those sage, harried conversations
as only a crushed kite with torn webbing can muster in the face of distance.
Now, when I smile at you, there are only waves ebbing acro
by ~breathheld
DownedTart mountain jasmine, just cooling, Rolls from greyed porcelain onto my tongue, Cleaved midair by the force Of a forgotten friend's greeting. "I coulda swore that was you From out there in the street!" Something small thuds against crumbling bricks On past afternoons Like kicking a dusty Pandora's box Long resigned to the attic of rememory. He nurses two Buds after a spell, And I see how hard his needled wife And three boys and girls work for one of his smiles. Oh his job is "good enough," he dribbles. The lukewarm tartness envelops me, Dragging back aDowned
by ~breathheld
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For MauricioMy reckless heart runs barefoot through the jungle beating madness tied to her fate like a moth to the flame.For Mauricio
Adrift in her own dreams she sleeps cradled, complacent, consentida and then I meet you. The tips of our lives meet like fingertips -- a handshake just out of reach --
and inevitablilty breaks like a wave over our heads. The tide turns. I am carried back out to sea.
by ~pochita
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--
I crave cocoa when the wind hits my door; classic conditioning.
You should try not to live too much, you could end up dying.
and though they settled, wet to mulch,
laughter finds them
please forgive the girl who hides inside herself.
they said truth will
out and she is grate
ful for it. She is summer leaves
fallen, yet enjoyed
for colour and play.
--
It seems a fantastic paradox, but it is nevertheless a most important truth, that no architecture can be truly noble which is not imperfect.
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