in a climate of hunters we became prey. out in the headlights we lost our way. did you not see the signs. did you see the threshold. once we were crossed, we forgot we were bold. time was much louder then. as were we. could nothing restore what we meant to be. no escape. no remorse for our public display. living. working. dreaming. the hunters are on their way.


this is
where i am today

not beyond
or between words

though they may
seem too small

they contain me
just as you do

and yet

i take as much space
as i can

and yet

you expand

until I am gathered
safely in

dreaming of
new words

to contain you.



There is no hell in here. And pain is not allowed. You may think that is impossible. But all the cracks will heal if you just take a breath. All the holes will fill with light until you burst into a song. I swear the night will not feel so tall then. And the moon will not be so indifferent to the dream we shared. Because when we close our eyes, they are not there. Nor are we.


There is no story to tell as yet. I live it up as I go along. Lost in another scented season. I am a singer without a song. But that is the fate of those like me. Or at least what we improvise. There is no story to tell as yet. But there are a thousand lies. And my favorite of them all, the one that I love most. Is the one I tell everyone of how you made me feel like a ghost. There is no story to tell as yet, no matter what you’ve heard. You mistook me for someone else. Someone who has a way with words.


This time of year, there are no peaches.  All the trees are in various stages of undress. And the moon tends to drink too much and talk too loud. This time of year, you need a secret alphabet. Legal counsel for all affairs of the heart. And a crisp, clean alibi for anything you might do. This time of year, I count down the days. I leave the candles alone. I wear your name again.