you slip through the shadows night hawk
fading from black to vibrant
and peaking when the dawn rises
your energy amazes me
itches at my skin
with no indication of disease
or happiness.

you won't follow me night owl
you've created a harmony
within yourself
and i find
i'm a bit envious of that
do you hear the calls
of the morning sun?
like a puppy, i'm enthusiastic for the thought of love
and my bounding up the stairs
gives you warning of my approach.

do you sit still nightingale
or are your eyes frantically
searching for the next exit?

i woke this morning
with a tiny seed of disappointment
sitting on my shoulder-
walking into the kitchen
it edged its way into my soul
and now waits for the rain.

i wonder if this means
that i'm the one who wanted it-
i'm the one that concentrated on
planting the plant
that would grow
to destroy me-
take out my own rooted structure.

i woke this morning
to your kind words
and your absence.
there's a sense of hollowness in that
a moment of disappointment
because the anticipation
faded out-
left its keys
but no note to let me know
how it got out.

there's no promise in your eyes
no hope for the future of buildings
and bridges
just a sly wink
and an ever calculated expression.

i want you more than that-
more than the rain
that falls on this city
and leaves me wet
but not broken hearted.

your brushstrokes
aren't myne-
i don't paint that way-
my words don't fall carefully-
don't tip toe-
don't rush to meet you and run over you
like water-
my well is dry-
overflowing-
and never predicatable.
i don't complete my sentences like you-
instead i struggle
with the dark comets inside-
as they rush
to get on some sort of pattern-
so that the lords of this world
can map them-
can tell the people
that they aren't omens-
aren't warnings against this gurl.
silliness
is what theses shoes hold
and you can't bear my closets-
there are fabrics tumbling out of this mouth
and i don't begin to fold them-
i can't offer you this heart
because it only beats for the blood

and somehow i made it out alive-
am still living with this organ
that keeps demanding
that it would be better off left.

these fingers itch for paint
and you can't teach me that-
so i look up to you
and motion to the stars-
carry them down from the moon's gardens
and lay them at your feet-

i don't have bitterness bound in my posture
but you can't begin to unravel
what i won't let go.

give me moments.
to tie up this hair-
let down my wings
and just enjoy the night.

-a.