Longing for the we of us,
inseparable, invincible and free
the you of us,
art and mindfulness, tender to the touch.
Stronger than carbon steel,
consciousness higher and deeper,
always gaming the years 
and trading up.
Visions in broad strokes
from the strange to the bizarre.
Visions of loveliness, delicate and perishable.
Exquisite this life with you...

Beauty incarnate, my love.

When was the last time you looked out and there was nothing to be concerned about? Everything new and different and liquid. 

Just when you think the issue between South and North shouldn't matter anymore,even though you're several continents away from the conflict, there's something familiar about it, racism of a different kind or plain old power struggle that rears its exceedingly ugly head and you just want to run in the other direction as fast and as far away as you can, to nowhere in particular, nowhere you can think of and just hope, believe, that when you choose to turn around and look back, things have changed and the view is different, the threat is gone and the human remains. 

One morning you walk out and there is nothing to fear.

Another, nothing more than fear itself.

The steepness of the hill, the thunderheads, the ominous outlook sheltered
deep inside to protect you from the worst case scenario as all life seems to be measured against. Worst to best, with nothing of consequence in between. 

That is our depression, our longing, our escape from the moment which seems so ordinary when it is all that we have. How did we arrive here?

The photo on the wall I always wake up to never seems the same. She is still alive, my mother, with or without judgment but always wanting to explain that my life was not the first one lived, nor the last. That there is always a solution to a problem that seems so insurmountable but not always the solution
I am looking for. 

Why after all these years am I not satisfied by this? 

I want to reach the sky of you and never plateau

the high of you, deep and penetrating, real and unreal.

We build and appraise, we occupy and we raze

like any other nation. We are the world. 

 You book, you’re always telling a story,

always characterizing, always plotting to find that part of me

that may or may not exist. Love is fiction, baby. It comes and goes

and grows and recedes and sometimes tells the truth. Entire worlds

are crossed and uncrossed and canceled out due to marketing failures. We

are human after all, and after. The most, the broadest, the widest, the largest, the ‘est’ is the problem. Nothing more. Face value, that’s what we’re afraid of. Giving is an act, treason a cause. Lying is a desperate attempt, loving a lunar landscape. Light my way, oh desperate one in the common of the more desperate among us.