A locket the size of a heart, if the heart was made to be kept close.

She held it in her hand, small fingers curled to nestle it against her soft cheek; indeed, she was a small girl, but her heart wasn’t small.

The locket held a secret – but then, that is the nature of a locket, so it is no surprise.

What the secret is, isn’t what is important. What she did with it is.

Because small girls, little girls, are not meant for secrets. They are meant for sunshine, and curiosity, and spinning in circles until they fall down.

So she did what any sensible little girl would with a secret.

She put it in her heart.

And because her heart was so much larger then her fear or her hope or her world, the secret became just another piece of her heart, neither defining it nor becoming lost.

what if all the blank spaces
are just hiding places
for my devils?

and I fill this page with words
to overturn their homes
pluck them by their wings
and make them mine again

you are
a bright light.
a soft curve

unrepentant
but forgiving

you are today’s delight

the space between each breath

and sometimes
breath itself

There is not enough of you.

Not enough of the special brand of mischief
your eyes promise.

Not enough of your promiscuous laugh
that has made itself so comfortably at home in my heart.

Not enough of your crooked smile,
or the map of your thighs in the morning
a lazy but confident promise
if only
I will stay in bed.

There is not enough of you.

so I stole your shadow from a sunny day
to shade me while I read

I convinced your reflection to follow me home
and watch me as I write.

There is not enough of you,
so I will write you into a line,
a poem
a book
a dream.

i steal
your breath
just
to
make
your
lips
part
for
me

there was a moment
when her eyes
met mine
that I
knew

she would be
poised
parted
and
perfect

I would know her
through her
beautiful eyes

and she would know me
through
my
hungry heart

I know your curves.
I learned them the best way possible.
by touch and by taste.
with time and with hunger.
deliberate and slow.
swift and sure.

I mapped the contours of your body with intent and your curves remember me well; strong hands and parted lips left landmarks.

I left my poetry between your thighs and my scent upon your skin.

you are known, but not discovered; there are secrets left in the cleft of your thighs, and the rising rhythm of your breathe.

I know your curves.

But I want to know them better.

So – you are wondering – after almost fifteen years, why is he posting poetry almost exclusively?

Well, I mean, who doesn’t love poetry?

Honestly, almost everything I share – prose, poetry, autobiographical – is shared with an intent to evoke a feeling.

And poetry is my sharpest knife. The fastest way to mainline my intent. To inject my current mood or feelings directly into the veins of those who read my words.

Life evolves. The wolf under my skin is still there, but he’s older, slightly (so very slightly) wiser – and just as hungry.

I never write for a particular audience. I always write for myself first, and for the attentive reader second. Throwing bottled words to the world to see what the tides would turn up.

NE is still here. She’s kneeling by my desk right now. I spend every weekend with her and Bear. In a moment I am going to have my hands around her neck and her breath is going to belong to me.

Like I said.

Some things never change.

from your knees
everyone seems
divine

subjugation by decree
submission through the
eye of a needle

there is such beauty
in a head lowered
and eyes
upraised

inevitable. a statement of fact.

that you belong _here_

bound. beaten. bought.