Be

there are times

when the world moves

too quickly;

I spin into it

and away from

all things

reasonable--

&

there are times

when nothing goes

fast enough

and I over-think

 (think think think)

everything--

&

there are times

when it is

ok

to 

simply

be.

Flutter

it’s funny because:

with him,

the butterflies

felt manufactured.

stamped stamped

onto carmine velvet,

sewed

so wings could flutter

but slightly.

and with you,

even though

it is still  

pink filament

shimmering

on my

finger tips--

i think,

i think!

--the butterflies

to be

real.

because.

there are slight

moments

when we

(alone)

create heat.

and if the butterflies

turn counterfeit,

(they may well be)

so be it.

it will not be

the first.

Joy/Sorrow

i only write,

she tells me,

when things

are very good

or

very bad.

simple

contentment

does not allow

one to bleed

(joy/sorrow)

onto the page.

there are long

night-drives

where car lights

inhabit my head

and shine too bright

on my thoughts.

and there are days

where autumn sunshine

falls through treed limbs

red with berries

and hits the softness

of my soul.

it is only always,

she tells me,

laughing,

I think

I think

too much.

Were

You have never been,

You never were--

very real.

Did we ever?

Were we?

A dream that shimmers in glossy technicolor,

slants through window panes

on my face.

You cast shadows on my heart at times,

but

only when

legs carry me away, I rush through the wind on an autumn afternoon--

head on the pillow, eyes closed, mind wide open--

eyes search for you in a crowd, forget that I do not want to find--

fingers itch for intertwining closeness--

soul seeks comfort--

only then.

But other times:

I cannot remember if

we ever

had been.

Phantoms

Does your heart ever throb a bit,

sort of tremble 'gainst your ribs?

Yearnings tug you backwards

 --pulling, pushing, leading, begging--

 taste the past just a second more!

Delicious slivers of memories

flutter and disappear

--evaporate!--

leave your mouth empty,

your fingertips with that
(phantom)
touch

of what was

what had been

what used to be.

It’s not that you want to revisit.

(though sometimes, that wouldn’t be all too bad)

And it’s not that you’re not happy now.

(because really and deeply and honestly you are)

It’s just when a smell or a taste or

--god forbid—a picture!

confronts you and shoves you

much too quick

into the past

and those memories

wash over

and over

your soul.

They:

feel like the warmth of wool-scratch sweaters,

taste like lemon drops mingled with rain-water that dripped between your lips,

sound like laundry tumbling tumbling in the dryer,

and look like the fire slowly going dead.