Listening Eyes

Your eyes gather
Gentle spaces.
May I soften
The harsh lights
and tip toe in?

The sky and I want to meet,
Have a conversation about
Moonlight and your tears.
Sadness must not dwell
In this faded ballroom
Of a once grand hotel.

Yet, lingering music floats
On cool forgotten breezes.
Echoing hallow lavender
Of lost tomorrows
And sweeter todays.

Blue comes in many shades.
Pick several and listen
With your deft ear
And sing from the other.

While we cuddle
And gaze at the silver
Collecting light
Oozing down
Into the chambers
Of my searching,
Searching
Heart.

A Silent Greeting

Hello.
I want to say,
hello.
That’s it.
Hello
won’t come out
Of my mouth.
I am afraid
to walk across
This room
And say hello.
The world is strewn
With fearful men,
Dead men
Who couldn’t
Walk across
An empty room
To say hello.
I don’t want
To be that fool. Yet,
Why would you want
To say hello to me?
I have nothing to offer.
I’m sure I’m not your
Type. You have more
Of everything. More than
I can offer. Would you care about
A fucking tender heart?
Shy guys get left behind.
Brave men,
Men not afraid of their
Shadows, they rule the world.
I feel the neon yellow strip
Crawling down my back.
Yet, I just want to say
Hello. Smile. Then
walk away.
I have nothing to say.
No request.
I want nothing from you,
Well,
Except the aforementioned
Smile.
And to say hello.
And you can
Guess the rest,
I guess.

Brown Spots

Refreshed. I noticed as I stepped
Out of the shower,
The spots on my left
Hand, they sort of form
A dotted right acute obtuse
Isosceles triangle,
I guess. I was never
Any good at math. Too many
Rules. Had only one right answer.
Like my conversations
With my dad. All one sided.
And only his right answer.
And the dots on my hand,
I hate calling them that
Spots; but that’s what they
Are. Signs of the end of life.
Do more spots reveal a brimming
Life? Maybe. Eyeing my
Brown spots
And hands only reminds me,
I have not
Loved enough.
Not wrapped around
Enough waists, wrists, and thighs.
Not found enough
Wrong answers. Risked replies.

Olives for Lemons

 

I hear you
Not speaking
To me.
Strange body
Chemistry telling
Me more
Than I dare
Comprehend
About either
Of us.

If this goes on
Much longer,
I will be stark naked.
Stark
Naked.

Can you hear
The icy echo
Of the ancient
World calling
Louder?
That silence?
Then louder again.
That’s us,
As we stand. Enwrapped.
Nothing phantasmagoric.
Not matching
Anyone around us.
Wanting to accept
The hardness of
Unconditional
Reality.

Yet your
Drupe face,
Your taste,
Warm smell
And garnished touch,
Ache to be
Familiar.

Pitched between
Photorealism and
Impressionism.
Hovering between
the realistic and
the uncanny. Olives
For lemons.