Filling our lungs with

origami butterflies

as your lips touch mine.

having our souls

intertwine like thoughts strung

by power lines.

sending volts of passion

through our bodies filled with water

eletricuting our nerevs

and sending those butterflies

afleur.

creating staggered breaths

and dialated eyes

only we,

with creators of waves,

can create.

I roll over and realize I forgot to shut the blinds before falling asleep. The moonlight is shining bright into my room hugging the curves of my blankets, making them appear like waves frozen in time. Uncanny shadows are cast throughout the room from the futile stacks of accoutrement strewn about. I’m surprised to see that color seems absent and it looks like I’m inside the scene of a film noir. My mind jumps to my time in New Jersey and the frequent nightly visits I took to the shore. I used them as a reprieve from my swarming mind. I would sit, watch, let the tide take all the heaviness in my heart and carry it off to sea forever. As if doing so would grant me night-vision, I would squint to make out the features of the water better. I often imagined my pain slowly making its way to the horizon and falling off the edge into the vacuum of the cosmos. My favorite nights were when the moon was waxing, illuminating just enough attributes for understanding of the space. The break of the waves would briefly come into view when hitting the sweet spot of moonlight and then disappear. The ocean moved through my senses. First with sight, then with sound, when the waves were acquainted with sand in a humbling crash. Touch and taste came last as I would feel the mist settle lightly on the vellus hairs of my face followed by the discreet taste of salt. The cycle would continue, the tide little by little chipping away at the marble encasing my heart, making beautiful curves to reveal a Bernini masterpiece. But the ocean understood that I needed more; I needed purity, to be cleansed, baptized. So, she would slowly wash it all away, beautiful sculpture and all, to display a raw, but real beating heart. Only then, when I was left with a relieved fervor, would I thank her with a small bow and walk back home. There, I would crawl into bed and fall into a deep, healing sleep.

droplets tangling in my hair

like crystalline ribbons

dripping off of cliffs

of dark rock

webbed with moss

water trickling down

my shoulders

flecked with grains

of ice

liquid pounding against

pebbles and stones

splashing

quiet explosions

it accumulates

and runs in a river

away from here

Sometimes I think

my mind is an ocean,

endless ripples of thoughts

stretching into oblivion.

But other times I think

my mind is

a kiddie pool:

shallow, always skipping

from one thing to the next,

like kids grow up too fast.

In reality, I think my mind is as

human

as I am.

It is not an ocean, or a kiddie pool,

or a rapid river drowning

unsuspecting victims.

It is a human.

One who wades through oceans, splashes in

kiddie pools,

canoes in rivers,

and catches fish in lakes

and grows old

and tired

and is full of flaws

and perfections

and drowns.

My mind is not

a lake,

a river,

a puddle,

a sea

a pool

a canal

a stream,

no, my mind is me

and I am my mind

and when I sink into a river,

I do not join it

in a delta,

a beautiful crossroads.

I just drown.

The river loves her like a second daughter, like a middle child in between the silent streams peddling along crowded trails and the mouth that deposits affection into the elder bay. Gossamer clings to her shoulders and pools around wound up ankles with potential engery flowing through aquamarine veins, and she’s living. The man in the moon drapes love like a quilt across aching shoulders; if the river is her mother, he is her father with pride gracing her shadow and the stars shining in her wake. She’s living for the moments because if she ponders too hard about the mediocrities of waking up to start again, she will simply stop altogether, so she keeps living. She once read that some people found living preferable so that no family would have to bury their breathless body, but she has no one except the river and the moon to claim her.

And the kids at after care crown her queen of the train table and ruler of circle time around 4:52 or so. She knights the brave soldiers with spitfires on tastebuds leaping for attention and Oreos, whichever the teacher hands out for snack first. She teaches them about the ocean and nature, the way the trees sway and the waves play, lapping at young ankles like kittens. While they experiment with Earth, she wanders through briar bushes and finds everlasting beauty in the lilies surrounding her feet.

At night, the moon sends down Pegasus to be her companion. It is lonely, and she is sad, but living is all she has left. Sapphire melody carries aching bones to the indigo landscape. She leaves the city that doesn’t love her behind, for she will always have the water that envelopes her in crystal hope and the moon that recognizes sorrow like a lost love and chases it away with brilliant lights.

She finds me one crisp morning when the breath has just left the newly christened dewdrops. I swear to the heavens I love her and ponder how such a goddess came to be. She doesn’t love me. I understand that. But we will dip our toes in the pure water of the river, let the sun hear our affectionate words and drown out our sorrowful cries. I am hers, but she is not mine. She belongs to the open waters, the riverbank, made of silt and stardust, she belongs to no one. I want her but cannot have her, for if any soul were to capture her, the moon would pause in the heavens and the tides would pool together the last of their spare change to get her back. I do not envy water for being the one she calls home, I do not envy the sun for being the celestial being she calls lover, for I gave up on fantastical daydreams long ago. She belongs to no one, especially not me.

There is a canal

in front of my home.

It reeks of human waste,

it reeks of human ignorance.

The water is pitch black

like the hair of the woman

who passes by it every day

to meet end's meet.

The surface is covered with

plastic, sometimes you can't

even fathom underneath that

plastic, there is a substance

that created life.

It isn't bewildering,

as I've seen a person

who created a life,

don't hesitate to ruin that.

Why should nature be different?

Sometimes,

when I am in my balcony

I see the canal and get lost

in this utopian dream

that I will someday save it.

But when I am walking near it,

I forget about the death

of the canal.

Because just like others

who walk past this canal

I have a soul inside me

that is dying too.

@asterisk

fluid ecstasy,

dripping stars

from my coral cased strands,

rivers tumbling down

from the crevices

in my hands.

two lilies found a home-

one tangled behind my ear,

the other dangling

at my hips,

lapping at the moonlit surface,

dipping in to taste the night.

i swim and breathe

in forbidden air,

the water folds

and finds its way

into my panic fringed nerves

to kiss my fears away.

another moment

and i will fade away

in a whirlpool, forever.

just tonight

i shine

in my watery jewels

with shooting stars

in my heart.

the raised asphalt stretches,

a punctuated arch,

the trucks go by,

some stop to tilt the hopper back,

some lose their cargo,

held by hope alone.

the drivers step out,

to smoke and assess the damage,

or manipulate the hydraulics.

under them,

the steam and mist merge,

a hidden revelation.

upon the stagnant liquid,

the long-legged stork marches,

she knows where to tread.

she eyes the residents, with concern.

I slither to you, my love,

my olfactory bill, richly reward.

oh, I have been here long, waiting.

i move slowly,

letting the fog overtake me.

cautious of making a sound,

as I scrape against the mold,

careful that the discarded,

sheets of nylon,

will not betray me,

as a tambourine.

But I am too late, alas,

as the amphibian bastard,

snaps its jaws shut,

I can see, that you look at me,

and your eyes say this to me:

you saw me coming, long ago,

you were waiting for my approach.

but it was not meant to be.

in my caution, i let my rationality,

win over my hunger,

and so the five-legged toad, has you.

his venom is faster than mine,

but his teeth are much smaller.

I am sorry,

I am sorry.

the mist rolls over the water,

and the moss,

and the bloodworms,

that come out crooning at night.

I’ll shed a tear for you,

but it stings so..

I sway back & forth as I float along the water. It gently caresses my hair & dances with me acrosst it's vast body. No need to breathe as it swallows me & I slowly sink watching the sun smile & it's heat fade into cold & darkness. No harm, no fear. Just peace & silence as it softly lies me down at the bottom tucking me in with the blanket of sand & one last tear is blended with the paint of water.

all I have is a body of water and you,

the Universe

and when all this is dust, drowning

in the dry pages of made-up time and

empty rememberings, maybe

I'll know I'm not really there

inside the first room everything is

dark, but the ocean swells

and you can hear it through the walls

droplets hissing on the old wiring

and you find yourself in every room at once

because that's the sort of house it is,

and your water is the same as the ocean

you're drowning in

so when you breathe it in, you

feel the burn in your lungs and

smile

where is everyone? you

don't want to know because

then you would be expected to find them, but

then again, they've been here all along,

haven't they, you just didn't

realize you were everyone

and the water, rising, makes

the dryness you can't rub from your eyes

crackle, electric

all I have is a body of water and you,

the Universe,

thundering against the walls of my houses

and telling me,

enough