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Exhale, brokenly. Raise my hand, thumb-out, towards face Open mouth, engulf Feel ridges on pad of thumb Teeth approach, jaws clench Press together, try to meet Jolt of pain, enough Jaws go slack, the thumb released Safe 'till you come back Every single time Try to bite my thumb clean off When I think of you

Sweet dreams, my love, and may I slumber too And hope that by some unimagined thread My dreams and thoughts, my fantasies of you Sneak out by night and slip into your head. And may my thoughts strike bargains with your nerves That you may feel my fingers tangle yours My knees against your knees, my cheeks - your curves; Let, one by one, my lips caress your sores For several precious hours, let us laugh At distances, at wisdom and at fate For though they'll end up tearing us in half I'll feel no grief if they're five minutes late Let's dream together, in each-others' arms And smiling in our sleep, ignore alarms.

When Peter, dearest, left this Earth His soul to Heaven gone, I asked mum what to do. She said, You mourn, and you move on. We buried Peter in a yard Ten tomb-stones wide and long And on his tomb-stone, mother wrote; We mourn, and we move on I cried that night, and then the next But slowly, I grew strong Remembering what mother said: We mourn, and we move on One night, I lay awake and thought Of Peter, dead and gone; I whispered, comforting myself, "I mourned, and I moved on." But not a minute passed before I heard his eerie song; A man rapped on my door and chimed, "You mourned and you moved on!" I asked, "Who is it?" "Pe

Every single drop that hits the pavement, Crashes, bouncing, broken into mist Hits upon a mem'ry of a moment, Washed from time, in which your lips I kissed Every second is a mile I've fallen Further from the lives we might have shared Hundreds, thousands, millions of our  futures Cut from time, not one among them spared. Every image 'round me is your portrait Every pair of eyes looks in your gaze Every hopeful love hopes in your image Beauty channels you in all displays Every thought I have ends up returning As I never can,  to you, 'fore long Every day begins and ends routinely With a cold reminder that you're gone Every time

My writer's block right now is fear Fear of ideas, I have found That, pleasant though they are to hear Are at their centers quite unsound That, as exciting as they are The moment they are first conceived Will seem less masterful by far Once by another they're received *** I fear each time I reach inside My bag of perfect-fitting rhyme And run my fingers far and wide And hum and smile to pass the time That if my luck will let me lift Some sorry line from out the sack No matter how I shake and shift The verse will ultimately lack. *** I fear my every lofty goal And every challenge that I set Will lose its grip upon my soul

Will I ever find love? Outlook not so good. Will I ever be happy? My sources say no. Are you always right? Yes. Was the preceding answer true? Maybe. So do you even have a clue? Definitely. So will I ever find love? My sources say no. Are your sources always right? Maybe. So, one last time: will I ever find love? Yes. Thank you.

The winter months, to me, have always been a curious matter. The cold isn't interesting, of course – unhealthily slender, I've always been used to chill, though it would be a lie to suggest that I had any experience with the real, biting frosts of cracked-through ice and body-parts in buckets of boiling water. Nor would it be honest to say that that I find no wonder in the falling snow; quite the contrary, a good snow-fall is, often enough, your best bet for finding me whooping at the sky like an idiot, crystallized cold running down my shirt; yet I don't find the falling flakes intriguing so much as endearing. No, what has always mystif

 I glanced out the window. Between the drop-curtains on its sides and below a third, half-closed specimen belonging to the window in question was a perfect rectangular escape route. Outside the window was an architectural tragicomedy of a building. I could see only the roof, which on these kinds of buildings closely resembles the underside of a car, and something caught my eye among the various prismic bits and rafter-like bobs.  On the roof stood a man. He wore a light blue business-shirt, a tie, and the rest of the appropriate costume of an office-worker. His presence four stories up and in direct contact with sky-line was decidedly wrong

Look at him Standing there Looking all happy Doesn't know Not a clue He's doing crappy Catch no words That he speaks Hollow our minds Talk talk talk Tock tick tock As the wheel grinds We're just sitting here Losing our heads Closing our eyes Butterflies flitting here Hitting the glass as we try to Get out to the skies Look at that beauty The splatter effect Applying for life but The stamp says reject Beats its wings uselessly Beautifully bleeds One last glance at the sun Before it recedes It's just hanging there Losing its head Closing its eyes Nevermore flitting here Slides off the glass as it tries to Get o