science goes on and on
about how little of our brain we use.
about the potential of the human mind.
about self, self, self.

nobody talks
about how little of our heart we use.
about the potential of human love.
about others, others, others.

that's why we are so screwed up.

we were on my backs
looking for light
in pitch blackness

a sliver of silver
the only glow
glazing the leap into nothingness

immobile in our bags
we lay like wingless butterflies
eyes wide shut

the air fogged
with each exhale

then one winked
another fluttered
black melted and blitzed with light

leaping and playing
there was soundless laughter
in an absolute void

electric

you smiled
i cried

far was the furthest star
but it was closer than you are

Flowers for Lisa

I made a pencil scratch on the table. A little crescent, its edge curving like the arch of her back against the light. The clock’s hands pull long shadows across the wall, pointing to the window where she will, in approximately five minutes wander by, meandering lampposts, car meters, cyclists, dogs, people. A tune whispering in her ears, smile caught on her lips. Crossing the receding tarmac in the fading light.

Here are some flowers for Lisa. Pink, orange, gold. The sweet scent sprinkling garden-freshness in the room. And here is my heart laid plain on paper, a warm wet thing throbbing with desires.

I twirl the pencil and make a moue.

A breeze whisks the curtains. The same breeze that will flip her hair from her eyes.  Soulful and blue, like a string plucked on a double bass.