she looked at the note on my wall and asked me if i read it every night before i went to bed. i told her no, that sometimes i don't even remember its there, but i never told her how often you pass through my thoughts or anything about you; how for a while, you didn't even seem real anymore because it had been so long since your voice last proved your existance to me, or how i believe you to be a blessing. i never told her how hard i cried that last night in november, or how leaving the airport was the longest drive home ever. i never told her how much i loved you for exactly who you are. so i thought about you, and i spoke with you without hearing your voice, and i wrote about you. in your reply i never understood the last two lines and they linger in my head stretched out like tripwires that i have been sumbling over for days. all i know is that i miss what is too far out of reach to grasp.

peering into your head
i always noticed enigma
i guess you could say it sort of defines you
.in a sense.
but you have always been intriguing,
the way you left a piece of you
to tug at my heart
every day since you left

the river of his voice flows in fragments of russian. he has always been one i admired from his heavy metallic victories and the olympic ring on his finger to his giant heart, always reliable, always encouraging, always amazing people with his little acts of illusion. he has a lot to tell, russian childhood memories and experiences the joe schmo american child would never dream of, things that would never seem real otherwise are as real to him as the chlorine he would soak and sweat in for years to support his family at the adolescent age of fourteen.
the memories that lie in his brain still soak in puddles of russian. i noticed scar tissue in a former puncture wound lieing in indle indentation on the edge of his left shoulder blade. upon reching into the puddle to pull out an explaination, his accent became thicker, heavier, like molassas to my ears. 'bulletholes' he said, and turned away as his heart sank in the memory.

(for vlad)

leaves scatter patterns on the pavement
in colors
that caress the eye
the way your soul does
when you paint onto a canvas
with your imprisioned spirit

enticing, seductive, enthralling
as your artistic mind has always been
the way it tempts me
to step inside your greyscale world
and swim in the acryllic visions
that are the very depths of you

your blue artist eyes reach out to me
as i turn to walk away
leaving a secret
i will never seek to know.

i will always be in love with
the creations of your two dimensional essence.

in the oceans of your eyes
i lost my heart years ago

drifting off on fresh soul-waves
smitten
and comfortably lost
in the way your energy was
soft
and playful
like your lips

sunken in your thick sense of compassion

the only thing i ever feared
was losing you
with my heart in your teeth

like it has been
since i lost it in you
years ago

-(for mike)

a heart flutters
in the stagnant heat

stillness boiling blood
rushing through veins
pulse rising
reaching
rolling
washing saltwater thoughts up on a beach
like waves.

in this tunnel
timing is
everything always
with each simple stride
in time with beads of sweat
on a glowing face
faster
stepping
softly
reaching

brunette curls
and a cool smile
easing the torture of thick humid air
open arms
reach out
and wrap around
engulfing my heavy heartbeat
like the tide.

sweet spring
is the scent of
flowers blooming
time passed,
each petal a goodbye

i've said mine a thousand times;
now is your turn to see me off and stay behind

no more circles turning
as we are like the sun
rising and setting
in a cycle,
time passing beneath our feet

this time it's your farewell
as i swim into my liquid oppourtunity

i'll take this clay ball of fate
and contort
it for me
always leaving
a spot for you

while we run our own roads
and in seperate search of ourselves
we'll have plenty of life for our stories to share

another time.