a dance.

There are no pictures to prove the story we tell.

No evidence of her in an orange dress and him in his suit, dancing.

Awkawardly tripping, laughing.

No one thought to capture the night's innocence or passion.

Yet, it's my favorite story to tell. I can still feel his fingers tracing mine, his kisses on my eyelashes.

His earnest goodbye.

No way to prove that, even then,

they knew it was love.

But believe me, it was love.

shifting shadows

i stand, steady underneath

the shifting shadows

of day break

and noonday

and dusk before the night,

waiting for dawn.

i stand steady underneath.

waiting for a crash 

of reality

and 

i want to feel it all.

the future and its questions.

even if this all falls apart, i don't think i could ever hate you,

resent you, or speak poorly of you.

even if it stings.  even if i never want it to fall apart.

your kindness is too great to deserve anything but fondness

and abundant gratitude.

"He admires [her], but he does not love her; for we admire things with reasons, but love them without reasons."

as it is now, i admire you for your kindness,

 

and you already have my gratitude.

i would like to learn to let you love me.

and see if i can love you too, abundant, without reasons 

and beyond compare.

fireworks, fireworks.

i speak in we's and ours,

if only for imaginations sake.

but i won't bind you to me, 

unless there

in a secret meeting,

you draw me unto you

to stay.

i'd stay.

i don't do well with unknowing

distances and timelines

or anxious hearts flowing 

to and fro -

you and i.

i do much better with 

the simple confidence

of a red string tied around my finger,

a simple promise.

we. ours.

but i will make no promise,

tie no strings.

aside from a quiet yes

to answer to your questions of affection.

i speak of love, as if we've been inside that cavern together before.

i only know your eyes, earnest and gentle, and yearning for an explosion of life.

fireworks, fireworks,

i love the view.

thursday afternoon.

it's easy to ask a lot of questions in this city.

constant pleas for truth and love

lying on my floor.

it's easy to be devastated in this city.

constant beggars for coins and change.

please, don't smoke crack outside of our window,

excuse me, excuse me.

we're all dirty here.  

my heart wanders here searching for some rest.  a place to grow its roots. 

fighting anxious thoughts and nervous ticks. 

countdowns. 

growing in frequency are the occasions are of laughter.

what i really love is the swirling peace in worship mingling around my eyelashes and into my heart confirming love, love, love.  mystery in the secret desires crying, jesus, jesus, jesus. spirit smells holy and sweet and draws me to come, come, come bask in the delight of a father and a beloved and a spirit who love me eternal, love me strong, love me to peace and silent campaigns of salvation.  

I did one of the most frightening things I can imagine today.

I painted.

san francisco summer time.

it's been a long time since the feeling

has fallen on my fingertips to

write, write, write.

like the city's fog,

thoughts are muddled in a mixture

of truth and lies.

i spend my days strolling 

down broadway asking the 

price of sex and love.

in my own mind, too,

wondering what the difference is,

and if i can be pure and loved.

or if the johns i see and meet

are everyman.

and if someone will prove that not every woman is a whore.