You reached out to touch my face that day.

Your fingers seemed already cold upon my moist cheeks.

I felt my tears must have had a lifetime of pain in each drop.

With a wry smile, your thumb made a gentle arc across my cheek to wipe away the pain.

And then,

you placed your thumb in your mouth, closed your eyes,

and heaved a great sigh.

Your breath expelled slow and steady, and I watched as the salt of my tears unlocked the grief you had been trying to hide.

Our pain bloomed in each line and crease upon your face.

You corralled me in to your chest and held me tight there.

And we both wept.

Because weeping,

is easier than saying goodbye.

There was Angel blood and fire dust in the wisps of heaven, blown by the currents of passionate havoc. The molecules escaped history and slipped into the slit kept secret by the future, now red with remorse at the loss of clock-tick virginity. Somehow the folding of hope and loss gave life to a seedling, with roots of immortality and stems of divinity. She rose from fertility with soft eyes and strong bones held tight beneath pale skin. Every time my heart beats, she blinks and I feel the breeze.

pen feels like

a waking limb.

it's there, but

hurts a bit to use,

when the flow

returns to tip

I'll feel normal again.

but my silhouette

leans away from the lines,

as though they

brighten more than

I suspected and

I block the glow,

causing the figure

to follow me

around the letters

until I accept the outline

of myself, a contrast

of nothing against

all that's there.

the words match

the dull air that

fits within my shape.

I will disappear

for you. for your sake.

I'm prone to bleeding

for strangers,

the homeless guy

I had a smoke with

and talked to for an hour

at that stoplight

in Indianapolis,

the girl that walked up

and asked if I had a spare,

back at the hotel

the man evicted from

his house - he got a pack.

the drifter, I drove

for hours as he slept,

refusing money and food

out of guilt.

or the couple

starting out, pregnant,

with nothing, got a car

and a stove. or 20 bucks

to the grungy dude

with the sign.

but the rest, I tend to avoid,

not the wife and kids,

the others,

to them I'm cold.

maybe low on hope,

too many offerings

to those close that meant nothing,

like it was owed.

I tend to isolate

within safety where I

can bleed for the broken

without fear of betrayal.

the way I treat people,

a strength and weakness.

if they ever collide,

I'd be more normal,

maybe better,

but less content.

They Baptized the boy

In poison and madness

And singing praises of salvation

They buried him in Faith

A delusional Black Sea of disease

With talking head snakes

And acid tears burning

A child falling into a well

And his soul was heavied

Familial injustice deceiving

Shattering into dust

The boy waded in blood

With the paws of a gargoyle

He hungered for Love

But misery perched

Its darkness gripping despair

And with an indifference

To reason seizing fear

They bargained for his soul

His Penance for Trust

The boy was crushed

Forever destroying his spirit

And his hope evaporated

someday they'll burn

the park bench this

little boy sits on,

it's red and shiny

like his lunchbox.

he scratches the glaze

with his tiny finger,

gummy beneath the nail,

smiling, he likes the

look of newness murdered,

giggles as he thinks

about the damage.

when the bench begins to rot,

it will start along the line

he drew while the others

played tag and drank juice,

he wonders what else

he can ruin forever

with a silent little scrape,

for his birthday

he asks for a pocketknife,

thinking about how much

he likes the glisten

of red in the sun,

and sticky hands

that change the future.

he makes a list

of the others that never

sat on his favorite bench

with him, he will tag them all.