Wraith

I am tired
But I am awake.

We’ve been through worse.
More cliches to settle in discourse.

The window, left open for you to sneak in,
arouse the dead outside in the night air.
Climb in bed and pretend you never left.

Still, here I am. Awake.

Alone.

The eerie sound of angels too lazy to carry me into dreamland.

Longest breath from me to you.
Across the room.
Sleep til daybreak
The wraiths at night wait.
3 a.m., I feel it

Daybreak and its ugliness.
In contempt.

The room comes alive.

Morning Affinity

Low level hum of the fan in here, the day looks sparse- wide open,

under sheets and cool air.

Theorize and project, but I’m not there. Something tickles my throat,

feeling fortunate to be anywhere.

Anyplace but the past, left to broken down pastures, now tall fields of grass.

Nothing sings like waking to a new day, the hum, background noise.

The morning dew, a life to renew, somewhere above ground

between the rough edges left behind, silver lined persistent, and the new found gravity I’ve found.

When the Dust Settles Your Ashes are Already Gone

This is a powder keg.
I’m sitting with my legs tucked in,
arms wrapped tight,
thinking is exhausting,
extinguish the light.

stop me if you’ve heard this one before

Or light the fuse, at least then I’ll know,
shifting weight, stark details, should’ve left here long ago.
Blank slate, daylight, somersault, afterglow.

This is a powder keg.
Emotive fuse that I own.

The ash and residue exhaust the horizon.

Pillows in the Sky

Lazy morning dynamics, how my mind shifts.
Yesterday’s blazing heat gone, climate shifted with my head, amplified and drifts,
and now everything feels right.

I watch the skies float on by, someones hand guiding their way, over-stuffed pillows hanging in perpetual motion.
Viewed from this speck- I must look so tiny from up there.

The day is for reminiscing, a distance from where the morning blooms.
Here in my head, enough space for two, or maybe on my lap, seated- just me and you.

I sit here waiting for the beauty of another chance at life.
Sunlight smiles down, the plight of serenity, and everything just right.
Clouds roll by, conveying how simple this all is…

Life Cycle of a Morning

Stagnation, roll up your sleeves, no one sees you when you hide.
And I don’t care if you redefine yourself, using crayons to color your outsides.
Smiles and lines, contours smothering air, humid and stank, leaving the room after a night of lust, spread legs and pillow talk, vitriol words that hang,
distilling into sleep or dreams, between sleep apnea and lost sentiment coming apart at the seams.
Nobody sees you but me, the real you and hypothetical me,
flogging the morning hours, a fly circles overhead and the slow drip of coffee.

This beautiful morning needs to be imperfect– we love each other for the same purpose, reminders; sandman- clean out your eyes and kiss me with your morning breath,
my lips are dry and the clamminess of skin leaving out its last sweat.

This perfect morning, piggy-backing the quiet, save for the ‘buzz’ of a fly mother who lost her maggots, coasting past the morning newspaper, poverty, shootings- things you just can’t relate to.
People who live in the skids, broke bank accts. and blistered families, burned out– so wasted.

Oblivion makes it’s case.
Compound eyes shoot a glance my way
There’s nothing left to save but face.
The lifespan of a fly and my own kids close by
as I drift back to a less complicated place.

Counting Daylight

The need for you, us… lust
and to deny human touch.
Where were you all those years?
I gave up.
My head scanned for you, imminent souls colliding,
physical yearning, and nothing left to deny me.
Nothing special here,
I saved my guts to stretch
out on your bed,
just to hold the back of your head,
your neck clamped in my vice grip fingers.
Weigh me down and pinned inside your spare, fervent thighs,
so tightly wound, box me in,
make the sheets tremor and writhe.
Left to the mercy of night, or anytime the urge
takes you from prostrate,
to legs and waist,
coiling in the sheets where I can find your warm spots,
wasted not– but taken fully in stride,
and grappled flesh, impossible to hide.
Never lost on a man, who cannot adore you enough.
Counting the digital numbers, seconds, and texts;
all drawn out in hours, not breaths
… Until the next moment we touch.