What Lips These Lips Have Kissed (I Have Not Forgotten)

Can you tell which of

these haikus is meant for you?

Listen up, lovers.

III.
I warned you my hands

were sweaty; More from your gaze

Than anything else.

IV.
Do you still take

Pictures of the girls you fuck?

Or was I the last?

X.
When I see your smile

I can’t help but wonder if

You’re still suffering.

XIII.
I bet you’re so proud

To be my first boy kiss, but

I define myself.

I.
Sometimes I’m shocked there’s

No string around my finger.

I still feel the pull,

XI.
I can laugh because

Kissing in a pizza shop

Really hit the spot.

XVI.
I’m still trying to

Erase the damage that our

Selfish lips had done.

VIII.
Even kissing you

In creepy elevators,

My fickle heart pounds.

XII.
We should not have met

In your West Side apartment,

I almost hate roofs.

VII.
Now did I fail you?

Or did you slowly decide

To destroy yourself?

VI.
I still ache, thinking

Of my shiny new nose ring

Getting caught on yours.

IX.
You were so damn drunk,

You shouldn’t have driven home.

How did I miss that?

XVII.
I do, I promise

I remember your name, I

still see faint bruises.

XIV.
Your face was priceless

When I first told you that sex’s

Not all about you.

XV.
I feel nothing for

you, but I won’t deny it,

I want you again.

V.
I’m sorry I can’t

Love you. But I’m glad that you

Accept me for it.

II.
You will never know,

How I admire your every

Eyelash, blink and tear.

Slant Couple(t)

I know you don't love me
No, really- it's fine,

But I just need to know,
Was it true at the time?

2014

Your Skyline

I am familiar

With the

your skyline,

Although I have

Never seen it,

Because night after night

I imagined you

traversing it,

Fluttering between streets,
Wine with your mother,

Or between friends,
Bra straps gliding

Gracefully down off

Your shoulder,

You merrily

dragging it back up

To kiss your collarbone,

Thinking of me,

Imagining my fingertips
As yours grace the shoulder
They belong to,

In my mind you

are the skyline of the city

you are learning

To call home

Sometimes jagged,
Sometimes piercing,
Always resisting stagnation,
Sometimes fogged,
Sometimes teasing,
Always resisting temptation,

And those lights-

I'm sure
they still

think of me,

As they go on

Twinkling,

Far far from here.

One So-Called Second Heart

As a child, I was often faced with the unavoidable question that all children must confront at one point or another: “What do you want to be when you grow up?” The answer sprang instantly from the tip of my vehement tongue in each and every instance. I wanted, indisputably, to become a nurse. When asked precisely why this occupation appealed to me, I told my simple truth, “I want to help people.”

When an authority figure found the audacity to address my seemingly incontrovertible dream with a cheeky, “Why not be a Doctor? Why not a heart surgeon?” I was quick to explain that which was so obvious to me, “Doctors cure diseases,” I said, “Nurses cure everything else.”

Anatomically incorrect as it may be, my mother always told me that inside of every individual beat two entirely distinct and separate hearts. The first was an organ governed only by the canon of biological principles within the human body. This heart distributes blood to each finger and toe of mine. This heart is integral to the circulatory system, and is sometimes tragically plagued by disease.  However, it was this mechanical metronome’s brother, the “second heart,” although fictitious, which interested me to a far greater degree.

This particular component of the body, according to my mother, was the heart that might be found bruised or broken. This is the heart that sometimes hardens, or is said to grow cold. This is the heart that I can feel so tangibly in my chest when something seems to leap or ache or swell or sing between my ribs. In this vein, I came to understand the idea that sickness is not exclusively restricted to the functionality of the body.

Discovering precisely how or why people become who they are has always engrossed and enthralled me. This, I am certain, is the very reason why I have always been so notably captivated by literature. I have thoroughly enjoyed delving into fiction with a group of like-minded, talented, and bibliophilic peers, but in Psychology I have found a peerless passion that I cannot let fall by the wayside. I plan never to relinquish the fire that burns within my heart of hearts at the prospect of pursuing writing, but I cannot help but yield to that which satiates my never-ending curiosity.

I once believed a nurse’s responsibilities entailed repairing the second heart of which my mother so often spoke. Therefore, this occupation appealed to me because this “second heart” appealed to me, and there seemed no occupation more noble or rewarding than its restoration. Although fainting at the sight of blood may have taken me out of the hands-on arena of medical professionalism, it never extinguished my ardent hope that one day my formal education would allow me to remedy, in my office, all that plagues the human mind; and, in my novels, all that swims within even one distraught reader’s so-called second heart.

[Insert Name Here]

is waiting for the bus

is walking through the snow

is watching Tangled!

is bored

is picking her nose

is crushing on her Starbucks barista

is crying in a public restroom

is falling asleep alone, 

thinking of you.

is skipping meals

is sitting on the floor of the shower

is smashing plates

is bandaging her thighs

is breaking down

is waking up alone,

searching for you.

Bilingualism

She kisses me

In English,

But we fuck

In Italian,

Her pecks
Are something

I can understand,

Without translation,

Something natural
And inherent,

Her tongue
I can comprehend,
When it moves
Slowly along my lip
Like a drawn out word.

But her trembling skin

Is something

For which I haven’t yet

Found phrasing,

As I hear

My own name

Sprinkled

Between her

Romance

Language lips,

I’m trying to

Decipher

The true meaning-

That which transcends

Vocabulary

Application,

There is the schooled
Second language,
Precise and limited,
And then there is
The Italian she knows,
Adapted from
Experience,
Which gives her nerve
To say what she means
Without trepidation.

Come posso dirle
Che sto innamorando,
Senza parole,
Senza parole,

I’m forever trying

To decipher

The meaning of a phrase,

The way in which one

Thing relates to

Another.

Tides and Time

How do I transverse

Amsterdam’s canals

With the knowledge

That its streets are always sinking-

But its buildings are made

So beautiful

By their reflection in the

Rising water?

How do I reconcile

With Venice?

What can I say,

If anything,

Of a city that is drowning-

But has been made

So much more beautiful

After learning to swim?

That which breaks you down

May not always be

Of Tsunami strength,

It may not be a menacing man

Peering into your eyes,

Lips curling back over those weighted words

Which seem to constantly swim

Inside your psyche,

 “You are not good enough,”

That the single drop

Of redeeming rain

Which kisses your cheek

For a beautiful moment

Could just as easily be
The torturous drop

That will drive a man mad

As it drips

Riotously against his
Forehead

For what feels like

Echoing years,

It will be the girl who loves you,

Swinging on the boughs of

This promising landscape that is your life,

Smiling through her sunglasses,

Swinging, swaying,

Saying,

 “Be realistic,”

That which breaks you down

May not be obviously caustic,

But still it may

Render your heart,

And like the whispers of water

That over years

Wear away whole coastlines,

There will be that subtle

Something with the power

To silently erode

The Achilles heel of yours

That they’ll be holding

As you’re plunged

Beneath the rapids,

No,
You cannot sear this out
In the shower,

In fact,

Some days

You may no longer

Be able to decipher

What is simply scorching water

And what are your streaming tears,

As both will seem to

Have been made salty

By your suffering,

But

You may have showered

On that dreadful day

In the same water that

Once sustained

Van Gogh’s sunflowers,

And you may have brushed

Your teeth this morning

With the water that once buoyed

Monet’s lilies,

So when the water burns my skin,

I must remember that hot chocolate,

And watercolors,

And oceans,

And I

Share the same

Primary component,

Oh, that I might be soft

And stolid as the ocean,

That I might find the strength

And the solace

To hold up ships

But slip through fingers,

When I am in transition,

When I am converted
From river to steam,

Into clouds and to rain,
Will you guide

The scattered sum
Of my parts

Back into some semblance

Of this same recognizable

Body of water?

Because 70% of me-
I am mostly water,

But did my birth certificate ever denote
Whether I was meant to boil

Or freeze?
Because ice,
Ice and precipitate and cloud matter-
And steam,

They are water too,
But maybe not the kind you’re thinking of,
No,
Not that kind at all,

So maybe,

Just maybe,
I’m simply not the kind
They all were thinking of,

But still, and forever,

I know I will be water,

That seventy,

And seventy,

And seventy percent,

Of the earth’s surface,

Of the human brain, and

Of my body

Is water,

No wonder seven

Is such a notable number,

Yes,

They told me seven was lucky

Because I was born on

The Seventh of March-

The luckiest day of the luckiest month,

And what a lucky Irish-born baby

I’d be.

And on the seventh of this year,

It will have been seven years exactly

Since

They drained the fluid that

Took my mother’s brain

From seventy

To ninety percent water,

And although they got it out
She will never stop

Wading in the rip tide

Of that irreversible pain,

But March seventh made me a swimmer

With the constellation of the fish,

So it should be easier to endure

My certain sea of suffering,

Because I have gills meant for this,

And with that, at last I could see

What a feisty born Pisces

I’d be.

And I knew it was selfish to ask

But in seventh grade

You are selfish-

So I asked anyway-

Would there be anyone

There

To answer me

When I asked,

Why,

When the inside of my eyelid

Is surely pink

I see only black when

I close my lids?

And when I can so clearly see

That the blood in my mom’s

IV is red,

Why do my veins run blue
Whenever

I look inside of myself?

Do not search for suffering,

As it will find you,

And it may flood you,

But time,

Time is a solvent-

It may not cure all things-

But if you're patient enough,

Your suffering will crystallize

And my god,

What a dazzling mixture

That’d make.

They warned you

Life would not be fair,

But they did not warn you

About this part,

Can you love me for

The subtle suffering

Something

That I hold

Within my heart?

I feel truth anchored

In my sloshing stomach,

And I know I cannot blame the tide

For drawing me in,

Just to push me away

As now I’m on the edge of the edge

Of the first of seven seas,

But starting today,

I refuse to stop swimming,

As the waves that rocked me

In daylight hours

Return as I lie down to sleep,

Singing, singing, singing to me,

"All there’s left to do in this world

Is hope, help, and forgive,"

I Love You

“Shit,”

you say.

“I practically just said it,”

You frantically change

The radio station,

Searching for something

To wash over us

And eradicate the moment,

“All you need is love-“

Blares from the speakers.

Your hands fumble

For another pre-set.

“You’ll LOVE

Our hot deals-!”

Your fingers scurry nervously

To the next station,

“You love, love, love,

When you know I-“

Your fingertip leaps

With such force

You miss your pre-set
Altogether,

The radio is off.

“Damn,”

you say.

“I just can’t catch a break,”

You look at me,

A little defeated,

A little helpless,

Eyes turning down at the corners.

But there’s an assured smile

In there somewhere.

(The confidence of knowing

What you
Cannot yet articulate audibly.)

“You can withhold it,”

I say.

“For as long as you like,”

You look at me strangely,

As I look at the road,

As if I might call you

Indian giver

If you do not relinquish

Everything

Now that you have given me

A taste.

“It is yours,”

I tell you.

I am hoping one day

It might

Be mine, too.

Dear Me, A Year Ago Today.

There will come a time

When you cannot remember

The tune

Of that one

Sufjan Stevens song.

I know you know the one

Right now it’s bouncing in your brain

It’s ringing in your head

And you’re cursing

Your vivid memory

There will come a day

When you cannot conjure

The scent of her sheets in the morning

Or the name of her one cat

And one dog.

You will forget which shirt of hers

She left with you.

You will forget which brand

She smoked.

Both she,

And the person you were alongside her,

Will be a distant memory.

You will forget

The pasta she made for you

And the movies she begged

You watch.

And that is good

And natural

And necessary

You will not forget

What you learned from her.

But you will heal,

And you may smile

When someday

They say her name

And it will feel like an affirmation,

And not, as today,

An assault.

There will come a time

When you will

Confidently belong

To yourself once more,

Do not doubt

The pain or

Process.

2012

By All Means, Wake Me.

If ever you find yourself in my bed,
I hope I have not fallen asleep without you.

(However, if I have-
By all means,
Wake me.)

If ever you are lying silently
In even the slightest
Discomfort
Or sadness
Or confusion,
Beside me,
And my REM trance,
I hope you will not hesitate to reach
A hesitant hand toward me,
And interrupt any dream
Of mine.

(As you,
Yourself,
Are a dream
Far greater,)

I hope you may feel the inexplicable comfort
With me
That may intimate
To you
So assuredly,
“Wake her,”

And you will feel
As if you should listen.

(My breath will rise
And fall.
My breath will rise
And fall.
You will wake me
And I will rise
Each summer, winter,
Spring and fall.)

You will know that I will wake,
And I will hold you,
Or I will listen,
Or I will boil hot water,
And crack the spine of a book-

Or I-
I will simply and presently occupy the space
Beside you.

(Your breath will rise
And fall.
Your breath will rise
And fall.
I can only hope
My open arms
Will make me
worth the fall.)

I hope you know that I will do so,
Each and every
Night,

(I would like to love you,
Tirelessly.)

I will do so without dreary tiredness,
Without overly excessive concern,
Without an expression that reads,
“I would rather be sleeping.”

(As there is nothing I would rather do
Than trace the eyeliner
Flaking from your face
And look into your sleepy,
Half-lidded eyes.)

I will do so,
So that you may do so- without guilt,
Without hesitation,
Without embarrassment.

By all means,
Wake me.

(My breath will rise
And fall.
My breath will rise
And fall.
You will wake me
And I will rise-
In love, so swiftly,
Will I fall.)

What Might Have Been

I inhale

Broken promises.

The memory of you

Aches in my bones.

They lay alone,

And yet still affected

By having once been
One with yours.

I consume

Wasted potential.

The dust of you

Films my brain.

Every nerve

Inhibited

With the burden

Of my
"It might have been,"

I blink

Unsaid words.

The sight of you

Sinks my heart.

Buries it deep,

Constructs a new wall,
Tall as the tower
Of Babel.

From here
To heaven,
I crack

Your voice

Into my knuckles.

From here
To hell,
I trace

The pads of

Your fingers

Along my hands.

I exhale

broken promises.

2011

Never Trust a Haiku: Never Let Me Go

Our days were numbered,

Hailsham was our holding cell,

A life full of lies.

Childhood creations
Were a soul deposit box,

Though we were clueless.

Silly art classes

Would prove our humanity;

We were just like you.

And the tape would play

In a white hospital room,

Struggling with the thought,

The sun rose and set

As Tommy withered away,

Searching for meaning.

I kept on hoping

Maybe we could have a life-

If we were in love.

I was committed,

My purpose was a dead-end

We tried, for life’s sake.

I cared and cared,

Donation after donation,

Then it became clear-

I’m nothing like you-

Nothing for Madam to say-

She’ll blanche and cower,

Cry because she knows-

Please, baby, baby, baby,

Never let me go.

2013

A Tree in Winter

Oh let me be

A tree in winter,

That I may

Gracefully

Let go

Of that which

Was not meant

For me.

Oh let me be

A tree in winter

That I may

Have a faith

That ensures

You will find
Your way home

To me.

Everything

Will be

Crisp,

Clean,

In the spring,

I will rebuild.

And as always,

My life will stand
Extravagant and

Igniting

In the fall.

Just you wait,

Faithful roots,

Just you wait.

2013

“I used to have this dream all the time,” he said, as he tugged her gently by their interlaced fingers.

There was a beat of silence as she swished a broken phrase around in her mouth. Finally she found an acceptable prompt.

“What was it about?” she asked. Her voice was some other woman's entirely.

“No," He said, and she furrowed her brow at his unexpected rejection, "I mean this." He answered, his back to her, "I used to dream about this,”

“About having dinner together?” her tone bordered on dubious. When there was no answer, she offered an alternative to fill the oppressive silence, "About having me here?"

“No- I mean, yeah." He scratched his head nervously with his free hand, "Not quite,”  His eyes scaled the staircase before him. His feet followed his gaze and her feet followed still, “In my dream," He began, "I was always leading you by the hand," The tension in her shoulders began to dissipate, "Up these stairs,”

She was intrigued, but still unsure. She could not decipher why exactly he felt the need to relate the anecdote.

“I would always be walking up to the bedroom- to my" He corrected himself, "Bedroom- with you in my wake," Her confusion only grew, "With your hand in mine.”

They had reached the upstairs hallway and began toward the door to his bedroom.

“Then what?”

“Then we reach the door, and you go inside, and-“

“And?” she responded to his momentary hesitation.

“And I suppose a part of me went inside with you.”

Another painstaking moment of smothering silence pervaded the space between them. This time, he looked straight at her.

“A part of you?” She said, trying to hide her desperation to understand.

“Well, you know how in your dreams," His words clamored over one another like children, "Sometimes you see everything through your own eyes, and other times you’re sort of," He seemed to search for the words, although they were simple, "Watching yourself?”

“Sure,”

“Well, I’m always myself until that point,” He wants to say 'this point.' He refrains, “And then the door opens, and I know that you and I go inside," They stand together, unmoved, outside of his white wooden door, "but I guess its my perspective that changes. Suddenly I’m outside of my body, watching as the two of you- the two of us,” he catches himself, “Go inside.” He breathes out, wishing he’d never begun, “And then I’m left staring at the door again, and I never know what happens inside. I never get to know,”

The absence of sound is some monstrous thing. She wonders how the absence of something can be just as pressing and just as palpable as its entrance. She wonders how words left unsaid can be so much more substantial, more fleshy, than those that are stated without a quiver of the lip or the drumming of a heart.

“Tonight,” her free hand reaches for the doorknob, “Tonight is not like your dreams,” she improvises, unwilling to allow her apprehensions to pervade her speech.

Not tonight.

No, not tonight.

Tonight is the night.

"Tonight is the night," She turns the nob slowly, practically caressing it beneath her palm, "Tonight, you step inside." She squeezes his hand tighter, "Tonight, you get to know,"

His expression is nearly blank with surprise. She does not speak like this. Is she not herself? Or has she finally conjured the courage to speak as she wishes?

"Tonight will be a new kind of dream,"

She swings the door open and steps inside, her back to the room and her brilliant smile to him, as she leads him by the hand.

He steps in after her. He smiles back.

With his own free hand, he closes the door softly behind them.

2010

Short and Sweet and to the Point.

Your hands were little
but that did not
reflect
how much I needed
to hold them.

One slipped
into mine
and two separate
cold hands
turned warm and wakeful,
instantly.

Those hands adjust
your glasses;
They fiddle with
my hair,

They sift and surf
through chilly water,
and pull rocks
from the receding sand

Those hands trembled
next to mine,
our skin glued
at hip, knee, and shoulder,
And all in between,
and down to toes.

Suddenly
the cold ran off
into the night
and left me with ever-emerging stars.

uneclipsed by
inundations back home.
They gave me something
I could not find
anywhere else.

2012

"Love is Impossible Before Legality."

To be in love

Requires no certain

Age,

No other pre-requisite

Than this-

You must know yourself.

And yes, the younger you are

The more you believe

You know yourself,

That your intrinsic everything

Is old hat.

But as you grow older,

You will become

Doubtful,

Doubtful until the day

When you discover

You do not know

Yourself at all.

It sounds daunting,

But I entreat you

Not to be afraid.

This,

This is the turning point.

This is the climax of your life.

And it has nothing to do

With numbers or years

Or dates and times,

Nothing to do with the

Voices that repeat,

“You are not old enough,

You are not yet wise enough,

Your voice is unimportant

Today.”

It is to do with you,

Whoever you are,

In whichever day and way
You find yourself.

Suddenly,

You will find

An illuminating something

And eventually,

You will find that irrecproducable

Self-

But only when you realize

You must create that self.

And when you begin

To create someone

You like,

You are so uninhibitedly
Free.

You will know love,

And you will know strength.

You may know destruction-

But through it,

You will know reconstruction-

Redesigning, reimagining,

Recompense.

Please be patient,

For when you feel you

Know nothing

About this world,

You will find

It will finally

Come to your feet.

2013

Before You Say I Love You

Before you say I love you,

You must learn to say it

Without those three words.

I am learning.

And one day,

I shall have the courage

To say the sweet,

True thing.

I will tell you that

I love you.

On a day like every other,

But my heart will be so full for you

You and your eyes so full of promise,

And you will see

All that The Pacific

Prevents.

You will know

How true it is,

As although this may be

The first time my weighted words

Meet your ears

It will not be the first time

You hear my

I Love You

As you taught me long ago

How to say so without words.

2013

Unwillingly Yours

You emerged from the depths,

Entangled in invisible infestations,

Labeled for my mind and for my heart,

Respectively.

The incredulity of your pretense
Enchanted and inhibited my nerves,

Dulling my process of thought,
As your feet dragged wells

through the sand
toward me.

My pulse reached for you
Only to beg my
Sorry sympathetic soul
To feel and find sugar
In the salty sand.

My foolish tendancies thrive
d
On what little you fed them.

You spent too much time
Far too close,
Your individual scent 
Mingled, unsolicited,
With my own,

You traced cold fingers
Down my one cheek
Freezing me into
A helpless stillness,
Your greetings
Always abrupt 
And disconcerting.
Always seeping with some
I don’t know what.

My skin prickles

From the touch of a perfumed,

Lovely, sure,
But artificial, hand.

Flights of nervous fright

Fill my head like some sick symphony,

Fast and running,

Staccato and Stubborn,
Reaching and Seeping,
Spreading, Defeating;
Encompassing my mind-
Lightheaded but breathing
Making it impossible,

Illogical even,

To think.
My cheeks and my brain
Flushed frantic 
And pink. 

You've transfered me your nerves
You said,
"What's mine is yours,"
Your unforgiving presence 
Eating away what is left
Of the evening.

As I stood unmoved,
Like Ice,
So solid and steady
You screamed at me
Please
To be moved.

Unprepared and distraught,
I found discomfort in the closeness,

Discomfort in the comfort

You tried so desperately
To impose.

We were too distant from the world,

As my knees rattled,

And I formed my first real opinion

Of this life.
But I could not take into account
How jaded,
And distressing and corrupt,
Your influence would be.
I could not see that your
Oppression was not endurable
In the name of empathy,

I wrote the assertion,
And end-all
Be-all
Of those self-impowering
Opinions.
As you undoubtedly

Reformed your opinion

Of me.

Living passively
Was my deepest
And most relentless
Hamartia.

How could I predict
the kind of pain

You could inflict 
In word and deed,
In the simple name of your 
Tenacious and self-indulgent 
Love


How long will that pain
Follow me,
Encumbering the blazing spirit
Of which I like
To feign possession?

I liked to think no longer.

I liked to think the pain
If so constant,
Could feel small
In the face
Of moral integrity.

How childish of me.

How naive. 

An empty head
Could never 
keep me
From the gaping hole

In my chest. 
Filled only with the emptiness
Of empty words
Of empty "I love you"s

The nervous song still sings,

Slowly numbing 

My agitated thought,


I find myself

Woken shaking
Drenched in
Oceanic goose-bumps
My own hair plastered
To my cheeks

I found myself
Woken wounded
In your arms,

By my own immaturity.

But today, they reject me.

You reject my weakness
And detest my doubt.

You debase me
For allowing you to 
Shake
Myself out of me

You debase
An empty shell.

In your anger,
In your fear,
You lowered me

Into a vat

Of bubbling, black

Ignorance.

I've tried
To revel in it,
To embrace the
Ever-penetrating
Velvet dark in front
Of eyes wide open.

I overlook,
Inscribe and forget.
Encompassed
In your arms,
I lose.

You steal me
and I forget myself.

2012

Elaska's Great Perhaps

If I wrote a book about my life to date, I would title it My Great Perhaps. An allusion to my favorite Coming-of-Age novel, Looking for Alaska, this title references the “Great Perhaps” which lies in the possibilities provided through every new experience. Essentially, The Great Perhaps is that wonderful thing that might be, if only one finds the courage to take a chance.

At every instance following my discovery of the idea, I have relentlessly sought my own Great Perhaps. I filled my days with exertive participation in life, and in it I have found such profundity. I’ve found such passion and insight in seeking opportunities through which I can experience and understand the rare and miraculous moments that pervade human existence. Basically, I have recently spent my free time feeling alive, and it has been the most rewarding pursuit of my young life.

My life story contains suffering, as does everyone else’s, but I know with certainty that such events do not make me a sad story. Rather, my story is a quest. I seek passion, meaning, understanding, and experience. Above all, I go to seek my Great Perhaps.

2012

I wonder why

Every day of my life

Is not spent

Sitting and

Staring

At you.

Will you speak

So freely

And feel your

Heart pound

Like a child’s

As he runs and jumps

Through his field

Of careless dandelions?

And tries to catch

The setting sun?

Cradle it

Within

Open Arms?

When he first 

Discovers

That elusive experience

Of being

Open and true

And alive?

Will you let me in?

Will you let me feel

That heartbeat

Through the pulse

Racing down into

Your fingers

As you relate

Every feeling that

For so long

Caused you such

Intense fear?

Some days

We may walk

And talk

Rather than sit

And stare;

To me,

All that matters

Is that you

Are here.

To me,

All that matters

Is that you feel

Careless

As the dandelion field,

Noble

As the sun.

All that matters

To me

Is that you feel

Alive

Like the young boy

And open,

Like his arms.

2012