I met her in a cold cemetery
somewhere in the south-side of Chicago;
raindrops foreshadowing snowfall
fell delicately on her tanned face.

Her embrace warmed me throughout the winter,
and her laughter soothed my damaged mind.
I wanted to travel to Paris,
yet she so dearly longed for Indiana's fields.

I decided that I'd like to be a lion,
and she decided that she'd be a lion too.
Nights kept passing quickly, until they slowed.
Suddenly the weather was too cool for lions.

We parted upon the promises of Spring,
both of us agreeing to remain quite close friends.
Off she went to her muddy mid-western fields,
yet here I stayed longing for cold rains.

Is your heart still wild;
I wonder,
as fog silently lifts off the Potomac.
I am not sure when
the rains started,
but the noise
falls into the fog.

The district seems sleepy,
and I am tired too.

When is it time?
When did the food lose it's taste?
When did adventure
get replaced by routine?

In the vague tones of morning,
before I find the weight of the day;
I lay.
Lay and watch.
She kneels on a lamb skin,
doing her make up,
in a mirror
perched on the end
of the bed.
I pretend to sleep
so that she doesn't realize
that I am watching her;
she's more beautiful in voyeurism.
In those moments
I am calm and she is beautiful,
The finality of slumber
the pregnancy of morning
the vastness of that mirror
sit together for breakfast
in my small dusty room.

My life started at heart break.
I was in kindergarten
and she was a full foot taller.

I've lived and died countless times
and with each new heart-break
I realize that I'd rather be
broken than over it.
Dieing a little
is worth the price
of loving,
of being loved
of living...

She lived in the twilight
out on the soft grey of dawn
breathing in the vagueness
of the retreating moon.

Even when you held her close
there was a gulf between you:
infinite in it's chasam
only bridged in orgasam.

To worship at her temple
was to be free
and a sacrifice
all at once.

But as she slept,
veiled in darkness
and watched over
by the flickering candle
everything seemed worth it.

Sometimes I imagine myself
strolling through a museum
of my love life.

My soles click on the cold stone
and it reverberates
through the grand halls.

My relationships are there.
Stuffed to mimic real life,
and safely behind glass.

The idea is that I can study them.
Learn from them
in a detached kind of way.

But I never do.
I stroll, and I pause, and I admire,
but I never learn.

We're breaking ground
on a new annex
next month.