Kitchen Poetry # 45.
The way you get so animated when you talk about something you love. And I can hardly get a word in except for the occasional "uh huh" or "oh really". But please don't mistake my lack of eloquence for disinterest. I just love watching you fumble over sentences as words pour out of your mouth like a river bursting its banks.

Kitchen Poetry # 44.
And should they want to know what I think of you? Read this and understand that every alphabet is drenched in thoughts of you. And it would take a thousand words and a thousand more to even begin...

Kitchen Poetry # 43.
The words that long to be heard hover precariously on the edge on her lips. End the monologue of deep breaths and heavy sighs and just ask her already.

A Beginning, A Middle and An End.
With reverent hands we desperately fumble for something to hold on to. Forgetting that what we seek is really ourselves. Maybe it's easier to look outside than it is to look within. And yet you wander where magic comes from. But I see it in everything you do. Shed the shackles that chain you down and the moonlight will dance upon your beautiful naked soul. And a memory will leave a quiver of a smile upon your lips. Take my hand and permit me to voyage upon the choppy waters of your thoughts. There we will travel to sobriety and we'll hook our dreams on the crook of a cloud so that no matter which way we face, the sun will always shine on us.

Kitchen Poetry # 42.
You fill the stories I keep repeating to myself in those quiet moments as I fall asleep at night. But no matter how many times I do, the imaginings pale in comparison to the blinding, vivid truth of you set in broad daylight.

You write the titles and I'll write the chapters. We'll call this story 'kiss' and make it up as we go. Just so we can keep them guessing.

Make it up as we go? Ok, then you write the titles and I will write the chapters. We'll write on diner napkins and scrap pieces of paper and in old tattered notebooks. Once we're done you can give it a name or we could just leave it as it is. Hold onto my hand and let's keep them guessing until the end.

Kitchen Poetry # 41.
Stuff my hands deep into my pockets. I'll cut my fingers as I fish for a quick and caustic wit. The reality of life is disinteresting. But I'll hold onto a host of memories painted with the scent of you.

Kitchen Poetry # 40.
What if there wasn't a word for everything? And no matter how hard you scraped against the insides of your brain, all you are left with is a handful of bloodied pink flesh. Some feelings are better off left as they are; hidden away from prying eyes. To expose them is to reveal the root of the word. It is to stand naked in front of a crowd as your imperfections and perceived blemishes are slowly and deliberately picked to pieces by scrutinising eyes.

Performance.
She was waiting. Silently trying to remain as still as possible on that busy sidewalk. As nameless faces brushed past her she wondered how anyone could be lonely surrounded by so many people. She tried to remember what she was waiting for. Then it started to rain. She stretched out her arms as far as she could and smiled widely. She had been waiting for the rain. She had been waiting to be cleansed; like kisses that fall willingly from the lips of a divine lover.

Kitchen Poetry # 39.
Perfect is a seven letter word that should not exist because how could you be real?

Kitchen Poetry # 38.
I used to hear a whispered word. Reverently uttered in the quiet of the seconds that exist between minutes. And unspoken dreams dance faultlessly carried on the mist that floats down from the emerald trees that shimmer in the morning sun. Breaking through the clouds and slicing the magical twilight, for a second nature awakes and rejoices to a new song of repentance.

Unfeminine.
A bruise is nothing. They hurt for the most part but then they heal. They're like coffee rings that stain tabletops. Easily removed with a damp dish rag. A scar is something else. More like a true friend, always there, even if you don't remember quite how you got it. Most people are like bruises or fleeting moments, here today and gone tomorrow. They're like invisible ink. But a true friend, that's a scar. A permanent imprint that's left on the soul which marks you forever.

BlackOut Poetry #6.
Right now these words will lie against the hum, the ambient noise, the pressure at the back of your knees, your tongue, your mouth, the knot in your shoulders and the cool exposed places on your body. I see that my gaze is frivolously considering through blinders not the meanings but objects that sparkle and shine in the sunlight. But when night falls how shall I proceed experiencing a different world with the same two eyes? The ordinary is investigated because the living is all that can be observed. Observed through the intricacies that mark the boundaries between dark and shadows, old and new. This was the meaning I found in the blurred vision of your shoulders and torso as I grappled through the fog of my own neural pathways.

Fix Me If You Can.
The men cut me open to have a look. They thought they could heal me so they sliced me in half. Instead of organs and blood all they found was a tangled mess of misfiring wires. They poked at the loose connections but nothing seemed to work. There was nothing but broken dreams and empty hopes. They sifted through unfinished sentences scattered among a tyranny of unspoken words. They tried and tried and tried until they tired. Wiping their brows they stitched me right up again and sent me on my way. Leave this for the next one, there's nothing more we can do.

A Broken Boy.
He was the boy with matted brown hair and bright blue eyes who sat alone on that solitary bench almost every day that summer. He was picking at the guitar planted firmly in his lap and there were pieces of scribbled note paper strewn all around him. I asked what he was doing and he said he was writing a song. I asked for whom and he said, "I don't know yet but it's for when I meet the perfect girl". He was searching for that secret combination of twenty-six letters that would make her at least think of him now and then. And maybe someday even call him hers.

Kitchen Poetry # 37.
Wearing two socks to fill in the spaces. Or smoking old cigarettes in the dark of my room. Coffee too black or slightly too thick. Or a pen to paper with just enough ink. Running into old friends and opening new doors. Laughing yourself silly or just soaking it in.
But in the end . . . there's just something to be said about wearing two socks to fill in the spaces.

I Was 14 When I Knew.
You taught me to love things especially when they come by as infrequently as the twinkle you get in your eyes when you’re really happy. So here's what we'll do: we'll pack some lunch and take a walk on this perfect afternoon. You can pick out a grassy patch somewhere beneath the shade of a Mimosa tree and there we'll talk about silly things. And between the witty banter and stupid jokes we’ll fall in love all over again to the soft soundtrack of the city humming away in the near distance.

Kitchen Poetry # 36.
Those freckles on your back
I'll trace them
and map them
my very own constellation of stars.

Gathered Emotions.
I sat and watched the bustling intersection. Our favourite cafe, our favourite lamp post, our favourite brownstone and tenement. All those people carelessly walking by not even remotely aware of the memories we carved out on these city sidewalks. This here is home. Home as reflected through the transient beauty of a stranger's smile. Where do the lonely go to when everything reminds me of you?

But You Made Me Find My Voice.
And there she stood, her head held high above the luminous cirrus clouds of ecstacy. She had been here before but there was never enough time to luxuriate in the feeling. Not until this moment. But now, those memories were distant like the stars you observe through a telescope. A whisper of a dream like the pretty echoes of those long gone. She closed her eyes and stretched out her arms as she exploded into a million tiny fragments. The wind carried her on its wings and scattered her among the emerald trees that glisten like diamonds in the morning dew.

Sometimes.
Waiting in the spaces between seconds is like being set on fire but you can't stop dousing yourself with gasoline. It's an unexpected rain on a blistering hot day. It's forgetting about tomorrow because you've only got today.

Kitchen Poetry # 35.
You are inked onto my soul.

Invested In Loneliness.
"One wild and precious life", he says as he shows me the skull he had impulsively tattooed on his middle finger as a symbol that things should not be taken for granted. I'll sit with him in a diner as he sips his weak lemon tea and talk about the reasons stars twinkle up in the sky. Some made-up story I'll likely believe about constellations and moonbeams and how nothing is what it seems. And when it's late, he'll call me and tell me he needs to share something cool he just read. I'll wonder if he ever sleeps as I doze off listening to him drone on and on and on about poetry, social revolutions, communism and the art of keeping sketchbooks. And in the morning I wake to a phone under my pillow hoping I didn't embarrass myself by saying something I shouldn't have. I'll bump into him in the library reading some tattered old manuscript and he won't mention anything about last night. He'll just look up at me for a brief moment, smile because I did say something embarrassing then quickly bury his face back into his book. Red faced I'll sit beside him and slap him on the arm as we burst into fits of uncontrolled laughter, hidden between rows of books.

People.
People fascinate me. You fascinate me. But what really interests me are the parts you keep locked away. What I see is the Image but I want to see the Real, the Object. But that's almost always kept well-hidden in a secret garden behind high, high walls. It's in a room where everything is stripped away and what's left is just a naked, pure form of energy. Once in a while I catch glimpses of it. Hidden in a place where words become fragmented and superfluous. Where the rhythm of your soul fills my cavernous heart with a beautiful sound.