you are one breath away from being in the grip of my hunger.
just one.
one breathe is forever.
it’s long enough to feel fear.
convinction,
anticipation.
desire,
doubt,
surrender.
one breath is long enough to meet my eyes
and after that
you have no time at all.
it is a mercy
and memory
a dream
sparked in the passing of hubris
and the sweetness of light.
dwell.
desire.
decide.
Let us talk of hunger.
Share our ideals of what constitute a fine meal. The placement of the instruments which will elevate our feast from sustenance to experience.
Let us sit, here, and discuss the shape and size of our hunger.
Let us.
Let me.
Invite me in. Show me the places your hunger has carved inside of you. The artful erosion of practicality giving way to baser nature. Let me run my fingers along the smooth surfaces of the softer considerations: Your first kiss. Cuddling in a tent. Let me brush my hand over the sharper edges, the one’s that make you bleed when pressed against. How it feels to have a hand braced along your throat, holding you in place, holding you in.
Let me lick the remnants of your restraint from your fingertips.
Let me show you.
Let me re-arrange your pieces until there is enough space for us to feed.
Let me introduce you to my wolf.
in the shadow of a minotaur
I came across a supposition.
that the difference between a maze and a labyrinth
is a matter of the heart.
you can get lost in a maze.
but in a labyrinth
so long as you go forward,
you will find the center
if we agree with this supposition
then we must follow the red threaded question it holds
is your heart a maze
holding captive
poor adventurers
incapable of solving it’s mystery
or
a labyrinth
home to just
the one
who put their hand to the wall
closed their eyes
and walked
joy is
fading light
a sliver of moonshine
caught between
finger tips
my joy
is akin to hunger
and
the wolf of me
knows no distinction.
it chases the moon.
i name them.
pet
sparrow
angel
*mine*
I offer you silence
not as an absence
but as a gateway
to a moment
where
I can
befriend
your
demons
it is not so strange
that I speak their language:
your demons know
my demons
so very
well.
you are not a rose.
not pricked
in thorns
or cannibalized
for love
you are not a summer day.
if your eyes hold
a sunset
you keep it
well hidden
you are not a gift.
promise,
secret,
or encapsulated
by any singular
intent
you
do not fit neatly
into metaphor
(or my poet’s heart)
you are simply
(perfectly)
unique.
we trade making a scene
for quiet today
is the cessation of dreams
the price we must pay?
hold onto these words, less we forget
that a lifetime of almosts
is one of regret
the longer I live
the more that I find
the things I miss most
are the dreams left behind
not callous, not simple, not shallow or clothed
but bared and complex, deep and exposed
not careful, not silent, not restrained or delayed
but reckless and furied, freed and remade
not counting the rings in the circles I’ve walked
but remembering the falls and the chances I’ve stalked
you can promise the peace of a path well traveled and tested
and I’ll show you my scars where the best have been bested
now tell me you’re listening
and I’ll tell you this:
a life that’s worth living
is too easily missed
even though it’s closed
there must be another side
to this door
I’ve never seen it open.
but I know you went through it
I think –
you lean against it
listening
for my voice
even though its closed
there must be another side
to your story.