whoa. 85?

that's a lot of posts. even though half of them are unpublished

if i unfolded a love note;

one of the four i have

in a box that is full;

one you wrote in that beautiful

language i never understood 

but read like a joke to humor you,

all the images of the long way home,

the rock at the park and the way you say

i had already won you over

when i wrote you that song, when

porcelain trees and the end of autumn

i know it sounds absolutely crazy,

but my ears would disable temporarily,

and i would lose any trace of your sweet song

within the audacity of my blocked path,

every kiss each word tries to represent

betrays the tongue i speak in,

smolders at the cinders on my lips,

i never wanted to harm you with guilt

i never wanted these stilts that i walk on

so high and far off, hold on? 

i will try, and i won't fly off, but

i find it the hardest thing i've ever done.