We were the seasons,
and you happen to be the rain,
I happen to be the open leaf on its roots, waiting for you in vain

My umbrella's not broken,
yet I'll shut if off
To feel your moist within my skin,
having you falling so soft
To welcome you within my lips,
within my cheeks,
for I have missed you all
those lonely, summer weeks

We were the the seasons,
and you happen to be the rain,
I'll let you fall,
I'll let you wet my shirt and
leave some stain
As long as you'll let me feel you
You, and your underlying, falling pain.

I saw her softly combing her chestnut hair
Each motion like parting smooth ocean waves.
I had to know her and how she behaves.
Yet my heart filled with terrible despair.

My friends told me to turn back,
but I braved the restless sea.
I seem to have a knack,
For finding any key.

I found her reading my favorite book.
She was delighted to know I knew it.
Nothing was more obscure than our love,
for a writer more obscure than his peers.

I dreamed of her every night
her passions warm
our victory right;
in either
dorm.

Every meeting with her I carried
my fantasies: a shell eclipsing the
very truth I failed to see, or so they
said of my nights' shameful proclivities.

We shared our hearts like pastries,
devouring one another's
thoughts until we
knew the taste
by rote.

Of course, we were so engorged upon the
fictions of our authored lives that something
had to be real; had to be tangible
beyond mere spooling tales wagging to tune.

Ignited like a forest fire was the lust coursing through us and
in gleaming moonlit fits of ravenous lips and tender bits
our bodies danced in only so many ways two
chiming instruments can rattle the soul
knocking and injecting essences
to quench the flame that
can never ever be
quenched...

Oh, Lord!

I lay there breathing wishing to die in
the moment I knew I loved her that I
may immortalize the knowledge thusly
ending potential doubt and teeming lies.

A month later, we were still burning and
alive and burning alive but we don't
threaten our haven, we just consider
ourselves lost in a wonderland of ***.

Then a man, a few years my senior came,
and he wanted words, he felt entitled.
He felt entitled to her, her mind, her
body, her genius, her love and her ***.

A month later, at a bar back at home,
I saw it all too clear and regretted
ever knowing her, ever loving her
every succumbing to the ***: that drug.

She's somewhere now, loving him, because he was entitled;
his name was on her history, in her language, on her
books, in her mind, on her, in her, every time
I thought it was just me, he was there
dancing with her, holding her
my hand was a ghost
all along.

My darling portends the end of an era,
but my life began with her and that soft kiss.
My darling portends a life of searching for,
cure to a heartbreak that mends with further pain.

And maybe it was just your short attention span that attracted me
The idea that if I could hold your attention for longer than five minutes
I could maybe hold it for five life times.

At night the bird flew,
Over oceans of trees
Past hills and mountains
Swept by the breeze

He sang an odd song
As he soared through the sky
He woke up the moon
As he passed it by

To where he was headed
The bird did not know
He just knew to sing
When the stars hung low

But the moon knew well
That old avian's course
To sow strange dreams
Without time or source

The moon recalled
When the bird once knew
Of his place in the heavens
Where light once grew

But now the bird simply flies
And sings its strange tune
Through oceans of night
Under the sleeping moon