if i were dead,
what circle of hell would i call home?

they are the air
in between.

breaths of comfort
and clarity.

and so frequently
i found myself gulping
and gasping
for more.

(please shoulder this burden with me,
it is lighter when you are near.)

wine glasses nestled between
almost frozen fingers,
sipped by months sore from smile.

laughter warms
and makes the stomachs of
friends long familiar ache.

time can not steal the comfort
found in the stitches of
each others sweet company.

i want to run my fingers
along rock carved
thousands of years ago.

i want to feel the same cold
that ancient hands did
under my own.

i want to stand
where history happened.

let it shiver through my body.

feel the ghosts of people
long buried.
long forgotten.

find phantoms
in cobbled streets:
old and hidden.

to listen to tales
lost and buried
beneath city stone.

someone could light this body on fire
and it still would not be warm enough
to cure the coldness caught in the bones
that were formed from my mothers blood

rain soaked skies,
warm blanketed bodies
laughing loudly
(oh god how sweet is the laughter)

gin painted lips
worn with love and passion.
voices of friends  
whispering prophecies

of a lifetime
waiting to be spent together.

all of this goodness
huddled under the shelter
of a house that holds
arms open.

with people warmed
by liquor that teaches tipsy.
that teaches joy filled tears
(i’m still echoing bellied laughter- it’s beginning to hurt)


there is so much love here.
it spills over plastic cups in hands
as a we dance
we dance.

i can not stop the gratitude
from leaving from my lips.

i can not be the only one that feels
all of this goodness.

(i love you,
please let us do this again.)

it's intoxicating.
the salt air on cool nights.

wind that disperses the scent,
pushing it closer to the deck
that warm bodies
are perched on.

warm bodies
that have full bellies
that grow painful
each time they laugh.

bellies that have been aching
for the last few hours,
because the laughter is harmonising
with body cries.

salt air
that blankets them.

salt air
so inebriating
it forces them into admission.

sweet confessions whispered
over mugs (warm and full).

songs of 'i love you'
swept up by the moon,
only to be caught in trees,
(let the words nestle here, please.
close to the ground,
before they are taken by the breeze).