Embrace it all like it isn’t falling through an hourglass

Celebrate the evening with warm embraces and unspoken tenses,
what is happening, will never happen again, and what never happened in the past
leads us to live with a finger on the pause button to absorb every frame in
the way it contours our bodies as we sneak sleep
and hold onto each other like the fireworks of sundown cling to the highlights of the waves.

We can re-ice this accident until it becomes a masterpiece. 

I like to think of pillows as pseudo people,
more or less feather encased
chest and shoulders and biceps,
Do pillows not smell better than birds?

My pillows smell like wind whipping whipped cream
like the ocean succumb to 
sugar rather than salt, let us
float. I want the sun to bake us
on our blankets, a cookie sheet,
we will be cannibals, it is mutually understood.
and when we float back to shore,
bury ourselves with the
 () of horseshoe crabs,
My shell is only complete with you under it.
 like my comforters,
 you are my comfort.

The bed sometimes asks too much of us,
shackles our ankles and () us
behind the kneecaps to put us back to sleep,

Our bed is a flowerpot, and we
are trees, trying to be (), but
it has high walls and sturdy ().

Every morning is an escape
from our own castle.

When we return, it greets us
with a festival til we fall asleep
at the feast. 

I suppose we’ll never be salmon
then.  Or clownfish. We’re
neither funny, and we don’t take well to
down streaming (you’re downsized enough,
 my seaborne Queen.)

Rise like Koi with me,
 cherish the moss between our footpads
and the watery crags,
the millipedes, and the splinters soaked in waterfall dust.

 No. We are never snow droplets in any kind of blizzard. We are
the windows frosted,
the cups built to spill
You are my cup built to spill. When the hot cocoa from
the tin kettle falls, I will be there to clean your sides,
 like wiping the melted glass from your cheeks. 

You bring out the church boy in me.
 You summon the blasphemer and the on-knee-petitioner of faith.
You have the utmost, uncut, undoctored, fresh paint
 faith of me. Do not admonish.

I miss you when cars pull
squeaky clean next to me on the corners.
 No ones smile is as tempting. No one looks like 2,500 miles of forests.
2,502 miles is meaningless without your arms to slow the bullet trains.
 So bullets will not harm us. Have you heard?

My blankets are not satisfied with me as an individual anymore.
 My bed has only one serving size, and that is two. It
is as useless as a parachute without a zipline without you. There is no registered
 safety belt in my pillow, I hold your hand as I plummet into a reckless
pit of abandon and abandon
and
and
and

 We awaken without trumpets. The
sax is on low, can you hear it?
 The saxophone rings behind your calves when the sunlight touches down on my windowsill,
 The piano rings and chimes up your thighs,
You are an edifice to my morning glory.
 But it’s a sleepy jazz. Our awakening is a lullaby
 until no one is singing.

The amber smell chokes the room. There is just enough honey in you and
I.

There is a Creek with Water Running from Which a Tree of Us Thrives. 

Lily and Marshall tried to steal our last name, James and Kelly Awesome. The Awesomes are calling, haha.

Let’s push through it all. 

If you struggle with me, I’ll make it worth it. 

I hope that one day you’ll never cry with the thought of me. Just smile until your cheeks hurt. 

I love you, and last night is irrelevant. Let’s worry about the tomorrows to come.

Wake up to it with a smile. 

Candles are funny creatures when burnt out. The wicks are black and crusted, like old, old trees, who have seen the worst of storms. I like to think of myself as a candlewick and you as the fire, and us as the wax.

I’ll always be patient and wait for you to come and find me, for the light we make is sometimes my reason for being. The smell we conjure is a home, is a haven.

And I can understand when you are blown out, for nothing burns forever. But I’ll always be here for you to rekindle, to spark again and hold my hand to create a visage of bliss, the smell of grace and comfort. 

I caught a spiraling rosefinch 

with my body once. Her talons bit

and dug and pulled at the skin,

but I did not bleed. I set the

wings with bandages, a carpenter frixing

a glass window with paperclips, the

shards of her biting under the

fingernails. And that’s how the days went.

I fed her from my plate, keeping

her beak wet and her stomach full.

I read her poetry, and she laughed.

She fit in my lap for the storms,

the white that cut us apart

in time, coming from the blackness which

we did not speak of. When she

flew from the skylight, leaving her

feathers in my clothes, my hands shook

like a tree waiting to fall. This is

how it went. A headdress and a goodbye.

But the windows are always open, and

There is always room on the plate.