Dark bits.

Life is story;

     all true

                       all lies.

Some empower;

            some destroy.

Choose.

Our love -

sometimes a raging fire;

sometimes a spark in the blackest night. buried under mundane poisons that seep into our lives. sometimes forgotten, ignored;

never extinguished.

Refueled and renewed; not just with flowers, candy, moments in the dark -- more precious than jewels;

but with kind words, shared smiles,

an unasked for cup of tea;

all feed the fire that time sometimes douses but never extinguishes.

Let's play a game.

I will pretend I am somebody else.

you pretend to believe me.

Touch me in the night darkness, a welcome mask.

Make believe happiness, simulated joy

our foundation.

Overbright smiles familiar pecks on the cheek,small sweet lies

our pillars.

Stale caresses.

urgent, hungry dead mouths weekly erotic obligation

our slatted roof.

We hold each other through the years. afraid to let go of what is no longer there.

Our shelter an illusion built on empty words and fog. carried away by the smallest winds of change.

The line inches forward.

I wait my turn to be the lone voice in the wilderness.

The guy in front of me, he's seen some things. Injustice and callousness, clutched tight against his chest, he hoards like gold.

The selfish bastard won't share his righteousness with the likes of us.

The woman right behind me murmurs "repent," in some strange language I should not understand. Crazed fever burns behind her eyes, with the insane satisfaction of the ignored and mocked.

She grins and flecks of grounded gold hint at darker stains.

The rest, all babbling smugness.

Me? I wait my turn, but really, I got nothing.

Or not. You can never really tell how words and music will land for others.  That's an artist's curse.

LUST

You taste like Saturday night,
with a hint of Sunday confession.
Everything lingers,
trails of smoke follow your touch
and I burn.
 

It's just me.

An October afternoon.

Ocean and Ocean and Ocean. 

if you keep looking, down the coast

there is only fog.

Only fog and me and sea.

I imagine him before I see him.

Slow walk just above the water line, 

the fog catching up behind him,

fantastical cape.

The rational me, the me that is willing to sacrifice everything - even my breath - for the illusion of normalcy, 

tells me he will walk by, acknowledge me with a half wave, and continue down the shoreline. 

The darker part of me, the part I trust and ignore,

assures me the stranger is coming for me.

I am the destination. 

The finish line.

I can see him now. A small stick figure,

growing a bit with each step.

He's smiling, I imagine.

He's hungry, I know. 

After there will be only fog.

I will be less than mist.

So I sit here, on this October day,

waiting for the stranger and the friendly half wave

that will never come.