All the things

It could be Friday night.
Or it could be Tuesday evening
it is hard to tell
the temperature is the same,
my dog still lies in his bed
his ears perked upward
his nose in a bone.
None of the days seem to matter
though I know the importance of every moment
the irony is not lost on me.
I could still be living Glendale,
or here in San Bernardino
either way,
it is the same two beers before bedtime.
And all the things,
I thought I was longing for
are the very things, I've yet to consider.

WildoParks

I had hoped to be settled by now,
sitting somewhere relaxed,
or telling stories
or examining concepts.
yes, I imagined the journey would continue
but I  was counting on a path.
But now, there isn't one
only crossroads.
Places that lead to another calamity.
And I do not grin
when the roads meet.
They are the slowly clasped hands
of decision and existence.
To do nothing is itself a decision
leading into consequence
And so every day,
I am at a crossroad.
A point where I must change my decision
reevaluate what I have decided.
I see it as a failure.
And I see the growth as heartbreak,
Where contentment had paved my way
I see it has lead me
into the unknown, naked,
panicked, senses left dull...
As I walk some nights,
through the gardens of choice
I am left only with my faith,
which I am told,
sees best,
in darkness.

landed

It is all a journey,
bigger biceps, better conversation, wetter kisses.
a road paved through endeavors,
each stone, a victory,
a new path, a success.
every crossroad, a failure.

It is all a journey,
a full bladder, shaky legs, a stuffed nose.
there is no great redemption
other than the peace of finality.

And so the day goes,
mornings spent doing,
evenings spent preparing,
nights spent longing.
It is the cycle of our everyday.

Tomorrow...
tomorrow is a brown wind,
sweeping across the mountainside.
It is high temperatures,
and unusual humidity.
It is the journey of nonsense
that has landed at my door.

It will be

and i want to tell him I love him-
before it comes for me, before it wraps me up,
and carries me off into the shadows of night:
Death will come for me.

So I draw him detailed patterns,
bake him cookies and croissants.
I fluff his pillows and clean out his fridge,
make his bed and do our dishes while he in the shower.
I suck his dick and kiss his feet
let him cum in me
because I want all of him
and would do anything to take a piece of him with me.
Because eventually death wants to carry my life away
The way the wind wants to carry away
all of the leaves.

Should his phone call go missing
the sky collapses around me
the very universe recedes.
I asked him once, if he had ever been in love.
and he said 'yes, more than once'.
And I said 'I've loved, but never really been in love'.
Because nothing had ever felt the way
my soul does, when he opens his eyes
on an early Sunday morning and says nothing
but smiles at me.

And I know in my final moments,
it will be our first kisses I will picture,
it will be the butterscotch,
the strong bay breeze.
It will be his laugh ringing through the air...
when Death comes for me,
and collects me,
like a child gathering his play-things.