whatever you dobe gentle with yourself.you don’t just livein this worldor your homeor your skin.you also livein someone’s eyes.

You should be more carefulwhen you move, my dearwhat with you...spilling moonlightinto my poem, with a mereflick of your hand.

some poems frothand foam and rise...out of my morning cup ofmist-sweetened coffee.

everything that is scatteredcomes together in wordseverything that is lostcomes back in poetry.

How....will I ever truly depict you?You’re perfect, my writing isn’t.

sometimes i wake upin the middleof the nightand findpoetry splatteredall over my bed.

my poetry is merely a body.you are the soul in my words.

how these words, wait to diein the arms of all the poetry..yet to be written.