sitting alone in a resusable silence
seems wasteful
after all the time i spent
discovering the vixen behind these common walls.
it was three days since i read a voice
humming low in tones of muted romance
from so far off,
i could barely reach the memories
attached to my cerebral fingertips
(but they wring my heart of home).

sitting silent in a recyclical stillness
seems like the only reality appropriate
for ressurecting all the times i left fragments
of my heart in the weeds on the sand
soaked in a mist of salty moonrise
absorbing the murmers of a foreign wind
in my ear
feeling no loss for home.

we molt when we are removed.
but i wont tell you how i know
that experience is the only secret
worth holding when it never hurts.

falling through an unusual freshness,
grey spring concrete never felt so good against my back,
bathing in a fiftydegree sunshine.
this poetry has reduced me to confession
rinsing the sand off a sun-spotted conscience.
in the ebb and flow of my heart,
i have sunk beneath the surface of the rising tide,
no longer waiting for words to flow to my fingers
but lay pinned beneath the purge
still wanting to hold on
to the bittersweet taste of the weathered salt
in the back of my throat.

'la vida es como la espuma, por eso hay que darse como el mar'