I cannot tell you of how many times
I have missed you this last year.
Some have been small; a scent that
Catches me right...a phrase I heard
You say once recited. My memory
Started to advertise you to me
Much more after we parted. Suddenly
I remember more places we've gone,
Things you've said, times I was wrong.
And it's this bit lately about worrying
That I wasn't much on my own
Without you to stop my tangents,
And without me to grapple your will
Against mine to see which would win.
And sometimes I wonder if what we
Thought was love was merely a few
Shades; that we will never know
The full spectrum of our color any
Longer with our us not us anymore?

Bound together, two misfits
In a spiral of existence,
Nowhere going, going anyhow,
The world before them restless.
So, the night breeds thoughts
Within, without a worry where
They'll end. Easy when you're
Two misfits simply being,
And there is no reason
To drive anywhere particular,
Heart and mind free.
And the one feels every appeal
Of pulse and rhythm spiral
And cascade down upturned
Ears; he knows that it is necessary.
And the words too, and where they
Turn and how they linger long
And crisp, it lends to closeness.
And a tender feeling lights
Upon his inner sanctity of reason,
Pre occupying momentary thought
When she explains her name
To translate "she sings".

3:46AM

To be human
Is the will to fall
And do it with grace.
We are not a race
That knows very much.
But uniquely feeling
Everything, we touch upon
The most sacred stuff.

Drop does the bass and
Movement everywhere around
Bright shining eyes, glowing
Beads and wet wood floors
Flooded in misused emotions.

Better be to bed now,
Since the best was spent
But went bust. Slow drive
Home alone and fine anyhow.
Transcend that emotion
Across the cosmic fugue
And tell me, will it echo?

Milk And Honey

Sweet and soft;
Tip of my tongue tranquil
Sliding cool down.
Feel the pulse,
That rhythm gets me
Heavy and needy;
Cool breeze thinking ahead,
And night is just another
Invitation to some magic.
Lost in this smooth mood.
Tender and crisp is the voice,
And when it goes slow,
When it cools down just so,
It's exactly like milk and honey.

I dig that beat,
Is it still beating?
In what inexplicable places
Do we find ourselves?

Do you see that bit
Of what you want inside
That mirror? Can you accept
That proud beauty devoid of pain?

Lapse, the time stops,
Rewinds, constrains my mind
So that my thoughts waver...
It is to be alone and wander.

But there's that beat sometimes...
I swear it sways me to and fro
And I am dizzy all too often by
It's power. Resist this blissful recount.

I am but a sorrow wakened.
This is embers elegant and stirred.
It is only desolation.
All of this might be absurd.

What makes you tick?
What's the heart of the matter?
Is it all just transcendental planes of existence or is there a balance in this chaos we embody?
So many avenues of thought and presence to operate upon; how does one sort the surreal from the same old shit?
Every glimpse of magic becomes distorted by every passing year alive.
Love is an illusion. Either that, or some grand experience none of us have felt yet.
Because it was almost love. Almost honest. Almost great in every way except first promised. Is it my personal error in not seeing the problems and addressing or forgiving, or is it that I've not yet felt thus?
So much drink and not a drop of satisfaction. So many faces and yet so alone.
So much music in vain and for no one in particular.
I think I've ignored my happiness to such extremes that I do not know where it would be any longer.

Lost in a sea of thirsty faces,
I'm resolute in my attempt
At a life where the first crack is
Mine to breach the night and
Sound awakening to every bit
Of heartfelt fiber I encompass.