Dreams

Sometimes, in dreams,
there is the chase.
I’m running from an unseen force,
which I can only sense
as it draws ever nearer…

• • •

Winded, I make it into a cab,
but he catches the door
and pushes me over to the far side.

Drive.

• • •

We reach the city limits
when I break the pulsating silence
with a half-formed thought.

“You know, if only you weren’t going to kill me,
I think we might’ve grown to be friends.”

A pause.

Perhaps in another world…” his voice trails off.

I’m not certain if I can detect sincerity in his tone.
I’m not certain if it matters.

He brandishes two four-inch blades, one in each hand,
stabbing with surgical precision.

First, several thrusts through the chest.
I feel unable to take a full breath as my lungs
collapse under a rush of the warm summer air.

Then, he draws me close, holding my head in the crook of his elbow. I look up and ask, “So this is how it goes?”

Yep. This is about how it goes.

“Good…” I sigh.

His blade meets my neck as I drift into infinity.

Pride

Pity, how one cannot sincerely say,
“I haven’t been thinking of you.”

In Confidence

I know, that sometimes you wonder
about these poems I write.

The ones you inspire
that I send off into the void –
little messages in HTML bottles.

And I wonder if you ever feel that
these wayward tidings of my love,
witnessed on far-off screens and
imbibed by anonymous passersby,
in any way disfigure
the seal of our intimacy.

It is not an unreasonable proposition.

I tend to bear myself without pretense –
unabashed with epiphanies concerning
the incremental manner of our hearts.


There remain, however, certain details
that will never grace these pages.

The silly nicknames we’ve made for one another.
The words we whisper as we drift to sleep.
The hardships that are not mine to help carry.
The dreams after which we still give chase.

These and many, many more, number
the secrets I keep, only between us.

Quill

Turn thee away from me.

Grant me no quarter
and issue no good tidings.

Bring nails to this face
and a spear to my heart.

Bore me full with holes
of all manners and means,
and you will find that
I bleed, though only in ink.