Excerpt for Music Only We Know: Collected Love Poems of Paul Hina 2013-2016 by , available in its entirety at Smashwords

Music Only We Know: Collected Love Poems of Paul Hina 2013-2016

Paul Hina

Published by Paul Hina at Smashwords

Copyright ©2017 by Paul Hina

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Music Only We Know: Collected Love Poems of Paul Hina 2013-2016

Table of Contents

2013 Poems

2014 Poems

2015 Poems

2016 Poems

2013 Poems


a single black curl swings over

her face, droops like some tired

hand reaching for the cocoa puddles

that decorate her eyes,

and she unconsciously scratches

at her neck, smearing an itch

across the vanilla lake in her


and there are flavors on her skin,

mysteries packed soft as snow

around her bones—new places

to taste and discover,

and the song she sends me is a

map to better breaths, places to

inhale all her layers, fly toward

the core, the sweet center of her

tantalizing, tantric rain


there's a sheer curtain lying over your

legs, waiting to be lifted—a theatrical


and i listen for the song those legs

sing with their smoothest voice to

hear the light that rolls up and down

their length and tickles my soul with

laughs of words winding all the way

up those thighs toward the poems

you've planted on me with the playful

purpose of growing velvet vines around

my body, pulling me into a life less

burdened, supporting only the weight

of the birds we've bloomed to sing our

bodies into pastels


she's a siren in the snow, a signal

through the white crumbles of sky,

a beam of perfect focus surrounded

by the gauze of wintry stars,

and she is the warmth huddled around

the heart, the noiseless sound of calm

that spreads over my art as she stretches

her body out over the last dreary spell of

cold blasted february, pushes the brush

of my hands over her loveliest promise

of spring blooms popping open while i

count the infinity of whitest snowdrops

that melt like breathy kisses over her



your waves of lazy melodies weigh

on my mind as your a-line dress creates

heartbreaking shapes overtop my


and your uncertain eyes, self-conscious

with doubt, send me to you on the stems

of a dance, twirling words and sentences

to show how graceful your slightest

movement can effortlessly send me to

the mighty shores of art's house


she's away and dreaming of me,

making music from the cloudy memories

i've sent her from my sleep,

she wakes up listening for rainbows,

humming my drowsy song, wondering

where it came from, considering clouds,

but the day moves, arcing away from the

sun with that song just beneath the skin of

the sky,

and when the sun bows to the applause of

the stars, the clouds hide beneath night's

skirt with her smiles of sleep


she bubbles under the surface, breathes

deep in the subconscious, leaves trails of

memories all over my world like shadows

or echoes i hear when i look into the slow

leaves of a weeping willow or the clumsy

cup of a daffodil,

and the spring is where she hangs her

sweetest song until she bursts above

the surface, moves the consciousness of

the clouds to show me the sunlight, falling

lazily like some slow, breathy sax solo that

runs over my back on a quiet spring afternoon

but lands softly in shangri-la where a thousand

kisses hang from every tree


she's a mighty kind of love, the kind that

kicks the head as March ends, readies

the heart for all her April flowers—all the

new blues of birdsongs

she's a jolt of electricity that buzzes and

floats in the air, leaving sweetnesses that

smell thickly of a song that swoons and

tickles the nose like a sneeze out of


and when May lands, she'll be there to kiss

me one last time before the heat withers her

willowy pedals away like dust dancing in

the brightest light of another planet's



she's lousy with curves, her hips chase

her thighs and her thighs catch her calves

and kiss her ankles with the slightest curl

of imagined lips

she's full of lazy lines, like the ones from

her waist to her breasts—a bending so

breathtaking it makes pillars of men

drunk on her delicate dips and dives

and she's got curls stretching over her

shoulder, climbing over her neck and

resting clumsily over her lips, a layabout

where kisses tell stories of better men,

men made just right by her tender taste

—a soft tongue where truth is bestowed

but only the best of men know the pile

of poems trapped in her tender throat

as she smears—a wet lip soaked like

syrup to a kiss—one after another across

my constantly startled mouth


the plum of your blouse perfectly

complements the depths of the roses

planted on your cheeks,

and that pink skin is a delicate shell

that explodes at the center where the

flesh of your lips—stained by the ink

of somewhere strawberries—writes a

thousand stories of someday kisses on

the film you thread through the folds of

my brain,

and i'd like to star in one of those

stories, to know the frisson as your

fingers roll down my back like a bushel

of blueberries babbling downhill, to feel

the perfect sting of being plucked by a

rose, thorns and all


her little pink dress makes her skin shine

and pop with all the other new blooms of


and her smile opens like a tulip's cup as

the wind tickles her naked knee, blows

her skirt like a chase, opening her smile

and sending a spark of sun over my

tomorrow heart,

and i'll tuck songs to her into folded paper

to keep me as cool as a spilt poem on days

written with summer's brutality, when all

the spring flowers are yesterday's paint dabs

hanging in memory's museum,

and when i unfold that song, she'll bend

the sky with the flickering pink of a sunset

sinking over wish's horizon and kiss me

with her rainy red lips


she's somewhere hiding beneath the

weight of years, and i'll have to dig

through many days to find the sunshine

of her smile, the golden tresses of hair

that left light glowing on my fingers like

cartoon gold,

and that kiss—so sweet—like spring's

softest blooms were slowly pulled through

the brush of the clouds—lousy with gauze

and colors fantastic,

but i know time will diminish the clarity

of the senses, soften the film of memory

with years of dust and debris,

still, i'll pursue every second, smell every

flower, carry it all quietly inside me until

there's nothing left but stacks of these

poems and the whistles of sun that's stained

the film over my daydreams with its cottony

fingers—something like strands of your hair

dancing across my face


there are cloisters where she clangs

in the brain's church, places she has

enclosed herself like prayerful fingers

around my heart,

but there is a dense fog around the shape

of her body, casting only shadows that

flicker from divine to bedeviled in endless

artful confusions,

and time's thin faith has placed her far

enough in the distance that i can barely

hear the sound of her song,

only know that she is singing


a sound in the distance—something

resembling your sunshiny almost-laugh

—wraps me up in that smile of yours


and i remember a may where the flowers

sprung from your hair, when the rain washed

my lips with your kisses—lips pouring over

me like the wisps of wondrous rosy clouds

for the love of dusk—

and i still see you in dreams and out of

the corner of my eye sometimes when

i let my mind drift, float away on the

whimsy of the silhouette of you leaning

into lullabies, your face decorated by a mess

of flimsy filaments of hair dancing shadows

over your eyes, tickling your lashes like

old black and white cartoons, coaxing a

smile, pushing a little laugh that still shoots

your breath against my heart)

but you are barely there, breath on glass—

dwindling, dwindling


she's the light i shine back at myself

to reinvigorate that tired muse that's

slowly dancing into a fade in my mind.

she's the song i'm always struggling

to hear, trying to remember the melody

that fed me poems and naked joy,

but it's lately only the sound of static,

like when a needle is closing the circle

on a record played too long.

she's the breath against my ear as i listen

close for whispers, imagining the heat from

her wonderful words reminding me again

that life is most delicate in stillnesses,

but the only sound is the wind—a ghost of

her lips lingering over an ever-aging echo.


she carries a thousand flowers with her

wherever she goes and the floral scent

stains her skin and makes the texture of

her touch soft and petal-like,

and when she kisses me, it's like a beautiful

garden were opening in my mouth,

and all her wondrous colors explode in the

mind like a painting running toward life in

a rush of pastel passions—wet and slippery

and waiting for skins to smear in


she wears her femininity with pride, drapes

it over her body like a long floral gown,

grabs the skirt and lifts it like it were an

injured bird in the palm of her hand,

and when she walks, she leaves a scent—

sweet as spring's honeysuckle—in her wake,

and she traipses over the dirt like may's petals

were tickling at her feet,

and i knew there were secrets—delicate

whispers of new flowers, new fruits—under

her drapes, but she'll keep them under wraps

for later dreaming, for discretion, for solving

the many mysteries of the mind with wings

and songs, whispers and seductions that only

muses make


there is music attached to you in my memory,

songs that slide around your slippery skin like

some cool vibration,

and i've shaken my mind's tree for the buzz of

that hum, the rhythm of that syncopy, too many

times, and all that's left is a distant melody, a

trickle of light on a picture of a string losing its

vibration, a sound slowly slipping off your skin,

leaving you naked and me too far away to taste

your fruit or hear the slow, quiet screaming of

my fingers sliding over your hip or the whistle

that blows through me as you bite your lip


your brilliant brown hair, light as

an autumn pond, windsocks with

the breeze,

the skirt of your floral dress flutters

with spring's every whisper, and you

laugh as it tickles your thighs, or for

the hair that wipes its wispy fingers

against the soft slope of your neck,

and the smell that follows behind you

is honeysuckle and rose, poems and

paint, a subtle gust of god blowing

inspiration in my face


some days the gloom descends from

the trees in great clumps of autumn


but other days joy dances like petals

from the trees in a fragrant ballet of

feminine grace,

and even on the dark days, i can

close my eyes and watch her sweet

kiss lazily float from a magnolia

somewhere a spring ago and each

frame of its descent makes deeper

magics in me


watching her move creates labyrinths

of dizzy dust in my mind, creates glorious

little confusions made lightheaded by the

bells her hips ring at every swing she steps


and her curves would spin me to sleep if

my heart weren't racing the bursts of blood

that try and keep pace with where she hides

her lightning,

and when she dances above my body, i

hear the music of creation, something like

water swirling in the ears,

or the sound you might hear in the womb,

or when a star takes a deep breath of space


she hides herself in skins of clothes,

cloisters her curves with insecurities,

hushes her hair away under a heap of

a scarf,

and even though all her exotic magic

tricks may cast the illusion of sexlessness,

i can still imagine those supple curves

beneath the veil, or the elegant dance of

her chest undulating like woozy water

with every slither of her hips,

and imagination can be a sexier, more

lascivious prize, but religion is too busy

hiding its hands, pretending to know

the magic that hides desire,

but carnal knowledge vanishes god with

curtains of deeper wants that transcend

the feeble fabrics of sin like birds from a

prison of hats finding everywhere sky


she's unwinding herself from my

thoughts, peeling her long fingers

from the places they clung to all these


she's breathing in all those old whispers,

and wiping away the condensation from

those warm, wonderful kisses,

she's fading into the morning hazes,

into the autumn breezes that evaporate

the pouring rains of desire and spring,

bursting behind a smeared weep of a

cloud on a brilliant bluesy day,

but she's still everywhere, lurking, hiding,

waiting to be found in every new flower,

to be plucked from nightwater's moony



she's a lithe purple plum in that dress that

fits as though it were built for her body,

stretched on her as sweetest skin like

dampened sugar melting over her shoulders,

curving over her chest, dripping down her

hips in a skirt of lavender waterfalls

and i have tasted that flesh, savored the skin

by her neck on her shoulder—exposed and

tart as passion fruit—and she is every startle

in my mind, every trip toward better kisses,

full of stutters of sensations that imagine her

softest thrill of thighs—a plum unpeeled


she's a marvel of a muse

making mischief of my doubt,

moving mountains before misery,

cresting on waves of happiest angels

before the fall

she's a river of ink spots,

flooding my pages during droughts,

fighting away the demon-stifles,

sheathing swords where words

wind around beasts

for slays of poems


every day i hurry to you, as soon as

i open my eyes, i rush toward thoughts

of you, try to open up your smile like

the sun shining through morning's


and some days i can catch a glimpse

of you, tying up your hair or playing

with the hem of your skirt.

but other days you're nowhere, caught

in the fog of distant imaginations, lost

in the middle of life's deepest labyrinth.

but i can still hear you counting, waiting,

biding your time, letting your hair down.


she's tangled her hair around the truth

with wizened fingers, twisted shivers

of epiphanies around my impatient desire,

and i can't untie her mystery from my hopes

or my happiness,

she alone gives me the music that whispers

white on my words, and when i close

my eyes during work or when i drift to

sleep, i see her dancing, and the heartbreak

flows from her hair as it blows carelessly in

some unconscious breath of a breeze blown

long ago, hides her in a rush of dandelion

seeds that swarm around her like snow


her slender arms move

across her body with a sweet elasticity

—taffy moving across my tongue,

teasing me with her brilliant burlesque,

and she stretches her legs out

in front of her,

like unfolding an origami scream

of sexual ferocity over her skin,

and she purrs as she bends

to smear her feline fingers

over her thighs,

shows her teeth,

exposes her hunger


she's a carnival of curves,

a loop-de-loop of loveliness

winding around my hungry imagination,

kicking up mischief

in the mythologies she makes

in my mind,

turning black and white memories

into phantasms of color carousels,

turning me upside-down

with wondrous new worlds,

waking me up smiling

in a bed made by joy

and songs

sung in the cage of a newborn heart


she's like a wave of warm water

rolling her curves over my body,

shoving wet slaves of desire

to crest over me sensationally,

bursting with foam and madnesses,

washing me clean of mind and meaning,

awakening to a blast pitch

that echoes sex and nothingness

in my floods of ears,

and i swim at the next wave,

wait to feel the flashbang

of her wet, wet, watery grave


she's the holder of hearts,

a collection sewn like a skirt

'round her waist, kisses stained

on the hem as it brushes just

above her knees, leaving smears

of love blushes across her thighs,

and she dances when she walks,

catches more eyes, and when

she chooses an admirer, he'll hand

her his heart, and she'll press it to

her hip and smile and then paint the

stain of it across her lips, waiting for

it to be smudged out with a passion

that will burn itself so hot that it'll

melt the hearts, leaving her skirt

all but a puddle of love at her feet


she waits patiently for me, her

clothes slithering up and down

her hips, dancing, her beast of a

body breathing in hot and deep

as she breaks free from the ground

beneath her stocking feet,

and she floats and falls on bedsheets

with the faint smell of sex startling

the air around her as she shimmies

from her dress, kicks it at me with

a blown kiss that dizzies the day

into a black night—sticky and sweet

with silk and sweat and miles of

madnesses swirlingswirlingswirling


she's dark and certain, a cellophane

starlet sheathed in secrets she won't


her features are bathed in the milky

hunger of twilight, and she's as pretty

and strong and clear as spring dawn,

her long body bends with the ease

of a flower bending to the light that

feeds it—soft but sincerely sure of

her place, her unique color and shape

she speaks in whispers to make me

lean at the heat, her breath sweet with

someday kisses, and her mouth moves

slowly open just long enough to entice,

to imagine the taste of her, to fantasize

that the air from her saccharin breath

might run over my neck and shoulders

like melted chocolate during lovemaking,

where all certainty would explode into

the delightful darknesses in her great

clouds of hair


she's an unflappable mystery,

folded over on her many facets,

exposing some, hiding others, creating

new ones with every breath/word/move,

she is unsolvable,

and yet i try to examine each curve

and fold of her, to expose my senses

to her every inch, unfurl her fingers

with my fingers, lift her hair for breaths

of the flesh on her neck,

i have strolled over her hips and thighs

with hands and lips, learned the lines

of novels yet to be written within her,

but she's a story i'll never fully tell,

she's a story that never ends


her cool brown skin is covered in clothes

the color of the sea as the night water flows

over her chest, and the clearest—not clear

enough—caribbean waterfall drops from her

waist down her thighs like the skirt of some

anticipated production,

and you can hear the air of the beach like

morning's hatching, and the noise of the water

makes everything seem new, washed up like

new worlds, and her breath is the breeze that

blows over the body, her hands what get the

heart beating, her lips what plants dreams that

will grow new loves over a lifetime of tides

coming in and going out


she unties her dark hair with knowing fingers,

pets it like a familiar animal,

plays it like some delicate instrument,

listens for the sound of its song,

it's smooth purring—

something like the sing-things

that fall from birds in the morning

when the world is still and quiet

and their songs cut through the dawn

with a warmth that rings like a bell familiar,

striking a chord like a moist morning kiss

slipping over a half-dream skin,

and she gives her hair a little twist,

rests it over her shoulder so it can paint

illicit lyrics on her ears—

the soulful sound of whispers and remembers


she dances in the night of my mind

like milk matriculating into a glass

of water—a beautiful white slither

that dives and spreads its wings of

arms in that graceful ecstasy of

surrendering to sleep's sultry angels,

and as the white overcomes the clear,

and the dream spreads its fingers over

my mind, she dances naked in a snow

of fallen white feathers, wishes me

toward the music of an unconscious

birdsong twilled by two glass birds

wading through the winter


she's a remarkable shape,

a pear hiding its soft flesh in silhouette

—supple and sweet—

creating beautiful forms in the mind,

landscapes that float around her curves,

whole worlds that want for words

to sprout leaves,

to color her mountains,

and yet she waits by an ocean

looking into the water,

watching her face open imperceptibly

into a smile,

and the sun shines,

and my words startle and spark,

like her light across the water,

sending shards of yellow everywhere,

brightly singing


this cool, crisp autumn day

is gray with forgetfulness,

it clouds over yesterday's

brightest kisses and shatters

them with the peculiar light

from the fondles of summer

—our last shimmering leaves,

but the naked trunk of a peeling

birch is a curvy cue to spring's

lovely remembers, and if i squint

real hard and squeeze my coat

close to my body, i can almost

conjure the colors of your most

vibrant flowers, or taste the dew

on your petals of lips—dampened

by the promise of future blooms

that billow from spring's easy

perfume, which we still catch,

from time to time, in the mud we

create when our warmest mouths

meet and make rain


she creates a lovely line of sight in

the snowy landscape, a place to focus

in the endlessly falling drops of snow,

like a blurry sheet of stars dropping in

slow motion all around us,

like the whole world were descending

into crumbles of sky,

like the curtain of love's theater was

falling down,



and she brushes the snow from her wings,

flies me away


that black top hugs you like the bodice

of some great gown, and though i can't

see you beneath the table, i imagine the

skirt of that long dress floating to the

ground, the hem tickling the floor, making

waves of my old stabilities, melting all my

rationality into pools at my feet,

and as a little night music begins to play,

your exposed shoulders(so clean, so white)

begin to sway, you stand and float on all

those trails of moonlight waters toward

me, swim in the sea of my warmest desire

where we dance and drown and do the

things lovers do

2014 Poems


her laugh is an elixir that rings deep,

a willowy shiver that moves like a

wave over the body and leaves a mark

on the heart, a place to plant all my

hopes—happinesses that only love could


and i count the wishes in her sweet, funny


and when i think i've reached the end of

the mumbles she makes in me, i lose my

footing, trip over her unfettered joy and

just kind of find the whole damn world

suddenly, laughably absurd as my mind

trails off into a bliss that floats away like

feathers on forevers


i find words she's left

me like love notes written

in the trails of my sleep,

i dream the shape of her

body as i count all my

drowsy clouds of dreams

—shape them into shimmies

from the space in night's


and as i drift to deeper

aways, my mind melts into

the heat of her lips and i

slip down the throat of her

kiss—made from memory

and midnight's milk


the cold snapped me open

as the snow outside

seemed to fall on me

with whitest sleep,

and when i woke up in july,

my fingers were caught

in the twirls

of your golden curls

—beautiful sunshiny tresses—

languidly dripping

over your shoulders,

sneaking some honey

over your breasts

for me to taste

like summer had just

cracked love open anew

and the lemony sun

was breathing heat

and building new songs

from the birds you've let fly

out of my melted snow


she's a brutal beast of winter,

whirring her great mechanics

into a cold snap that buckles the

knees of men and steals the breath

of babes,

her winds wither souls, makes

ghosts of morning trees and mountains,

and the streams and rivers thicken with

stillness as she conjures more bitterness

to write white on the cold,

and the snow stays, piles and blows

her startles of breath over hills and


but she is somehow beautiful with

the way she winds around the heart

as she prepares to love her many

colored daughters of spring


her cool hips and thighs, warmed by my

palms pushing and stretching and pressing

fingers into flesh pinked with passion, swell

like music breathing from our skin with misty

clouds bursting rain that falls over my body to

your body(a sweetest, wettest caress) creating

harmonies that twirl hearts and slithers over sex

with the most beautiful noises of stuttering slow

stripteases into secrets of lips tripping over lips

to taste the next, newest breath of echo in this

shared voice, holding in each blooming 'i love

you' for one final exhalation after the stereo of

this storm subsides and swims out to sea to

spread into a smile of sunrise


on the brilliant blue surface of your 

eyes is a sparkle that rises when we 


a reflected love that lifts the lights 

from the squirms of sun on the deepest 

seas and smears our skin with distortions 

of gleaming skyfingers

and when we drip into the depths of this 

love, get swallowed up in the sensation 

of swimming toward the shine of this

honey twilight, we'll emerge glowing

with a torrent of wet ferocity written

on our flesh

and Cezanne has built us this river,

a river of great dabs and swirls,

a river the shape of your body,

a fury of feminine lines and curves

twisting and undulating like a song

slithering through the rain

and beneath the surface of this river

our bodies dance and hum with Stravinsky 

dizzies, and we taste the songs of distant 

summer nights where plum fingers 

whimsically twisted our sticky child hair, 

tickled our bellies with future desires and 


and we've only touched the surface of 

this love, the beginning of this baby blue 

life that started from a shine in your eyes 

and has dived as deep as truest art ever 



she's a ghost in the mind's fog, reaching

out, speaking in a distant voice—a clue

to a song i can barely hear and can't

quite decipher,

her kiss is a taste of yesterday's nostalgia

that i sometimes find on my tongue as it

washes over me like torrential rain,

leaving only a momentary rainbow that

thises and thats chase away,

her touch is a scar on the skin that i can't

locate, but that i always try to remember

to feel for with whispering fingers that

pierce the fog of our old songs—somewhere

still singing


you cast spells of stemwinders

like your long lyrics of legs were

tendrils tangling 'round my brain,

casting new raptures, and i'm gasping

to catch all your mesmerizing moons

of illusion and magic,

and i grow dizzy at the thought of

your lips, have to catch my breath

as i wipe a hand down the length

of your hair, watch the sparks fly

off the flesh of your neck and ghost

away at the slope of your shoulder's

fleshy puddle of silk,

and you're all abras and cadabras

when you hypnotize me with your

hips as i watch you walk, counting

the waits-and-sees and tips-of-my-tongues

as those sweet swings ring my every bell

and turn all my dreams into bouquets

of starbursts like startled glimmers of

dust exploding over the blue lake that

flows to your bed from your simplest

sleight of hand


her stare is trained on me, but i'm

more cagey with mine, so she tugs

her shirt a little off her milky shoulder,

leans her chin on it like she were purring

something provocative at me, as if she

knew i were sketching her silhouette

out of the corner of my eye, unwinding

her into poems,

but when i do look at her, her eyes are

too full, too deeply blue, and a truth is

exchanged, and i can't look away—get

lost at sea,

and my eyes caress her shoulder, and it's

as if i can taste a new poem on her skin—

soft and tender with salt water—while a

rush of sweetest blood floods my mouth

with wondrous loops of words the color

of rusty, wrecked treasures of art


she's a wild streak in the wind,

a fever breaking in winter,

a vital breath of warmth in the

still bitter air that reminds me

spring is about to lift her frosty

veil and rain pastel pictures

across my eyes, push me toward

the happier hope of panoramic

love stories that will swallow

me with her whispers as she wipes

her damp lips—dappled with the

promise of daffodils—across my

ear, where i'll hear the whispers

of birds singing the secrets of

the lights brightened by veils

everywhere lifting, exposing

the euphoria of new brides, a kiss

perched on every petal


her expression is clumsy and cute, cocky

and confused, and she barely knows if she's

coming or going, but she moves like some

burlesque angel, her hips pulled by the

strings of some creator waiting to show

the world the fluidity that swings from

its great invention,

and when she speaks, her voice soars like

choruses, reaches the ears like the honey

of some too-sweet wine,

and she doesn't have a care in the world,

nothing that questions the clouds or the sky,

only a clever little crinkle above the lazy

blue of her eyes—as deep and wet as an

ocean unraveling its gravity


there's a floral scent on her skin,

the slightest hint of daffodils

floating in vanilla,

and it makes me dizzy to think

of kissing the flesh at the nape

of her neck,

sends a frenzy of sweetest blood

to the brain,

makes me lightheaded with lyrics

to songs i know are there,

swimming in the air around her,

and if i get close enough,

i might hear them,

pluck them from her hair,

let my senses fly into a singing

only love can hear


she's a shortcut to the sun as her face

opens spring doors with a breeze as

sweet and easy as her smile,

and she smells like elsewhere flowers

blowing their subtle fragrance at me

with the blooms of a thousand fingers

kissing at my skin,

and she is the shape of the summer wind

—the welcoming kind that retreats from

the heat, acts as sanctuary from the absence

of her at night,

but in the morning, her hands—like leaves

shivering on fully green trees—are my shade,

and they hold me with the cool confidence

of crocuses softly expanding


she stands at the eclipse of winter

into spring, where the half-sunlit

ghost of her future hangs in the

gauzy air of morning—the kind

that's so thick and cold it's difficult

to breathe—and spring's new sun

is peeling away our clothes with it's

heated fingers,

and if you can catch a hint of her air,

you breathe a poem so sweet, so new,

a moment of musical life where the

rhythm of our bodies marries chaos

and grace and things relax enough that

the world momentarily makes sense as

i imagine her warm lips pressing against

mine like a melting of the mind into mud

that is so perilously pure that it wakes the

roots of all spring's fruits


she's soft and new to me every time,

dark hair rolling down her naked back,

her chin resting on the melted cream

of her shoulder just so—a frame for that

unforgettable make-you-want-to-sing


and this simple collection of all her

glorious bits and pieces makes a sound

that makes every kiss a new shape,

shadow dancing in my brain, and they

all own an instrument only she knows

how to play,

and when we touch, there are flowers

blooming beneath the skin, bursting with

colors that stretch out with fingers that


and there are birds born from each kiss,

crawling across every goosebump to collect

songs to sing in the morning, give light to

the shadows, turn them into angels that fly

when my skin stirs your skin into warmest



she's always at arm's length, a place

i can reach only if in my mind, to

touch, to remember her smile—her

head tilting down, embarrassed by

her dumb joy,

but she's too far to know, too opaque to

ever truly hear her song or know the rhythm

of her body or the sounds her oceans make,

but i'll make songs for her, i'll build a rhythm

in the lines of a poem, i'll swim in the sun

patches of her seas, pretend i've found the

warmth of her sound in every shell that

calls me home with the whispers she hides

for me


she weeps like a withery willow in

this spring meadow's complicated

distance, and the sound of her is

muffled by time, colored by new


and though i might reach for her, try

to fight the tangles of nature's weedy

webs, i will never find anything other

than a labyrinth to the past, ending

just as far away as i started, finding

nothing other than that swallow of a

sound—her saddest song—like her

breath beating its wings against my



the throbbing purple of spring in

rising april brings her to me on trees

that explode with unfolding whites

and pinks like opening the kiss of

her lips,

and the smell of that april air is like

the vanilla on her skin or the tickles

of lavender when she unleashes her

hair and washes memories of us over

my mind—breathlessly gasping

and all the new flowers spread—so

slowly, so carefully—their pouts of

petals, remind me of her delicate

bending lines and shapes, her soft

flesh crippling under my touch—

so tender, so red


she's the sun through the half-naked trees,

the green of their buds waiting to sprout


she's the buzz beneath the ground preparing

to explode with colors and delicate skins for

stripteases and rain dances,

she's the warmth and the chill in the april

breeze that pushes away each long winter's

dream to reach for the clarity of clouds, and

she speaks with that dream's voice to the sky

like a song pulled thin and blue,

she's the sound of boys having a catch and

girls laughing in the wildflowers, the song

that calls the sun to shine its feathery whispers

as she lets her spring hair out, letting each

winter secret fly far, far away


she slides the paint on her lips,


with a gesture so provocative

that she forgets

how easily the softness of femininity

pours over her,

and she keeps her body folded

around that chair,

letting her flesh

wind the wood into riddles,

and her painted mouth

twists fantasies of kisses

into words

as easily as she breathes,

planting flowers on the vines

she's dappled around her orbit,


spattering her colors on everything

she dreams of painting

with kisses and riddles


she's a lovely series of curves that

wrap around the body and grow like

some beautiful floral vine that climbs

and reaches until she's everywhere on

everything, and i can no longer see the

world without feeling her tendrils tugging

at my heart and my mind,

and i know her stems and her leaves,

i've tasted her petals, fed her with kisses

and deepest love, and she gives me poems

and warmth and reminders of why life's

gravity starts and ends with her ever-winding

words, the sweet smell of her breath blowing

across my skin, letting me shine a little light

on the shape of all the flowers she holds


she's out of my reach, and i can't connect to

the sound or the frequency i once found when

wading—my fingers—through her streams of

sunny hair,

the light, the electricity of her smile—when

it used to attach itself to me like naked

happiness—is distant and fading,

she is a blur of a memory, a smudge of a

photograph, where her long, curving body is

a road i can't travel as easily as i used to,

and her moons of eyes are broken shivers in

the ocean's past, rush-rushing away,

now, only the noise of static remains in the

ears, and only the slightest hint of her voice

falls over the tides that bend into a horizon

too far away


i watched her run on whimsy's air, almost

on tippy-toe, grabbing the hem of her short

blue skirt to hide her thigh from exposure's


and when she stopped, stood still, an art so

fine had enveloped my senses as everything

slowed, and she was like seeing grace's own


and i watched the lavender mist of true love

descend and the sound of her laughter rose

all around me, and the sweet swing of her

hair in autumn's newborn breath was all

that mattered


as fall descends over what's left of spring's

promise, she is a pink medicine for the withered

dust of bluebells and buttercups that hide from

the cruelly cool breathing of the frost of dawn,

but beneath the swing of her rosy ghost of a

dress, her legs are shining like new buttery

sunshine and she pierces the skin of memory's

flowers with an overdose of ecstasy that sends a

white light over those many death beds with

whispers of simple beautifuls like a hum of

okays, all caught up in the swirl of her new air,

so warm and wrapped under the spinning lift of

her dress, rising like a floral umbrella to protect

all that is soft and breathing for their last gasps

before winter's wrath


her skin is so clear, almost airbrushed,

and her features are so perfectly placed

by careful, strategic hands that she could

be mistaken for a work of art,

and the caramel of her hair is splendidly

spilled down her neck—sun streaks running

down its length like tantalizing rain,

and she is tenderly smiling,

but there is vulnerability beneath the art, a

thing beating its wings under the skin, a

reaching that makes you know not to twist

or tangle her with eyes or hands, not to upset

the art of her with the indelicacies of desire


she is the hush of a wave crashing 

over a dream, covering my ears with

fingers of foam that shush-pop-sing,

and her mouth is awash with whispers, 

her hands play over her body like 

she were hanging something silken and 

delicate over a sticky secret of moon 

where her shadow sways and dances—

her skirt floating this way and that way 

over the wispy clouds of her thighs, 

and her hips hint at many heavens, 

she moves through me as rivers, 

decorates my body with streams of 

melting music, slithers of shimmering 

memories we've made from moonlight

—reflections off night's willowy water,

and her lips are slippery with silences

that shhh-hmmm-wow


you are a shimmer of a free spirit that

exists amidst the fog of reverie's morning,

an autumn miracle that curls the cold into

your fingers and releases it like sweetest

birdsong over my memories of you, falling

like october rain onto my neck and shoulders,

and the sound of crunching leaves beneath

my feet is the noise of your heartbeat, the

rhythm of the day coming alive in your great

shadow, following me to the light that exposes

your skin where i still write verses to make the

shape of you from the particulates of cloud

you've left me


i caress the miles of her skin, journey

over its hills and valleys, stop to explore

old scars—a new bruise or two—

and there is never enough time to explore

it all, to marvel at the softness—the vistas

of her,

and when she speaks, she opens new volumes

of poetry, peels away words like discarded

autumn leaves,

and behind her eyes is a city so vast that i hope

to make a map of it as i meticulously search the

body for the soul


her lithe body moved into the room perched

on pirouettes, and the music she brought with

her effortlessly fell from the noises of dream's


and the hope in her eyes gives men pause,

wondering how there can be so much goodness

in the world as she so easily dances over the

puddles of the heart, splashing joy as easily as

shivers grow goosebumps,

and when she flips those paint drips of perfectly

hair from her eyes, and she smiles, a truthful light

sprouts inside me and a poem grows many leaves

as pretty and as truthful as a dreamful of her pliés


all the pretty peonies of spring's memory

hang like ghosts from her flesh as clothes,

float from her body like dances of delicates

emulating wisps of the cold's cloudy breath,

and her skin's so soft that these spirits know

home can hang around her over the whole

winter, like sleep easing into a slower sort

of sleep—dreams covered in cotton and lives

lived somewhere other than now,

and spring's heartbeat synchronizes to her song

as march's fever breaks its ghostly strings and

envelops her in the mouths of petals, shuts her

away with memories in the cold mud of emerging



the shape of her is an idyllic silhouette,

a perfect cloud hung over the center of

the moon just so,

and the merest hint of her shadow can

send stars like sea foam—ever-expanding

—into the horizon, planting whimsy like

stars on everything i see,

and, as i climb those stars—decorated by

the shimmy of her shadow—and marvel

at the fires she scatters over this ocean of

desire, sparks stream down the water's

reflection, hanging her shine over every

lick of light, dancing in and out of our

shadow's secret

2015 Poems


the warm milk of moonlight moves

over her skin, shivers its brilliant blue

light down the length of her body with

knowing fingers,

licks of the night's electricity roll sexual

sensations over her with dreams made

from neon and hymns, wrecks her beautiful

flesh with softest nocturnal breathing

as the rhythms of sleep pass into something

peacefully familiar deep inside, exposing

some sticky satisfaction we paint on

ourselves as we drift away into drips and



she has a pitter patter raindrop heart,

the kind that cooly tantalizes the skin

on too hot days, melting like meditations

that lower the volume in the mind, sending

all the chaos of the world hiding like the

guilt of children—summer kids splashing

in the puddles, looking for rainbows in the

cotton cluttered clouds of her sweetest

candy kisses as she drives for harder rains

to pierce the heart with sunbeams and

smiles, unreconciled


she's standing in the periphery, an umbrella

—a dot of red in the misty fog—stuck to the

ground by her gypsy feet, and though she's

turned away from me, i can see from the easy

way she stands, that she's patiently waiting for

me, lost in rhythmic reverie while counting

raindrops, planning all our kisses, mapping

our every movement as we sail across these


and she smiles at the playful fires we'll catch

in our hands as we burn away the fog, hold

the light of our desire and just let it shine like

the sun knew we wore it like clothes no more


when you walk,

tracing the lacy hem of your dress

with your fingertips,

your hips twirl into a dance,

a sway that sings the sweet falsettos

of god's own choir,

and my mind chases its tail,

spins itself dizzy into time machines,

travels to mythic places,

through paintings—pastorals

of impressionistic pastels,

landing in the middle

of a nineteenth century ballet,

enraptured by flutes and twirling ladies,

lifting legs and cupping flowers

with rained on hands,

so alive and dripping with joy and desire,

where your simplest gesture unfolds art

like a blessing wrapped in lyrics of lace


from the rain that imperceptibly 

rolls down the nape of her long

neck, there's a puddle of skin at 

her shoulder, a perfectly smooth song 

so soft that it pulls poems from the 

spring and plants them on the art of 


and if you touch her puddles—carefully 

now—you'll see a melody like shiver-wings 

rolling from her back, folding over her breasts, 

bringing a laugh to life as a chorus of lilies

whistles their hopes to be birds someday—

decorating the snow with wishes warm as

summer rain on her bare shoulders


the waves of her body

bend and break

against the shore

of my skin,

shaking me

into childhood delights

of wanderlust summers,

and the moon is a disc

softly breathing

in the fog,

and the gulls

are somewhere

in the milky twilight

singing us softly to sleep


the rain softly splashes the window,

draws dull shadows on the skin

of your arm and shoulder,

the strap of your dress

drips down with the rain

as you take a sip of wine,

and you smile,

reaching for the strap,

but you stop,

let it fall,

and we laugh,

caught in the whimsy

of an approaching storm


she wears skin of softest desire when she

melts into me with the rush of sugar meeting

fire as we dance to a music only we know,

and as we crash like water onto the shores

of each other's body, splashing and pouring

like rain in the space of each gulping kiss,

we can hear the happy laughter of the gods

feasting on the earthly delights we conjure

with our naked nerve of love, swimming

through all the sugar we burn beneath these

sheets of sweetest song


she's lost to me, a silhouette floating

away in the summer haze, swimming

in the past, but still breathing her wishes

in my ears, secrets decorated in the lace

of moonlight,

and i trace her shape with night fingers,

try to beckon her with poems or songs

whistled into the darkness, listening to

hear if she'll whistle back, but all that

returns is the hum of a machine bigger

than me, built by a desire that just won't

stop churning in the dark buzz where

summer hides its ghosts—shadow dancing


i catch pieces of you in summertime

breezes, i can smell your body's perfume

as it breathes through the trees, tickles the

leaves to laughter,

and i can feel your subtle kisses, imagine

the stains they leave on me as i delight in

the slightest taste of the strawberries you've

left on my lips,

and on nights of sweat and discomforted

dreams, i wake to your shadow lying near

me, sculpted by moonlight and memory,

and your whispers cover the quiet stillnesses

of sleep like condensation's silk


she hovers over my skin, full of moonbeams 

and harmony, strings of honey lingering 

from her mouth, 

and she pulls her skirt up to her hip, stretches 

her thigh over me like a mystery peeling away

miles of music, 

and her body sings with my body's song, 

and the night moves slowly across the sky, 

tries to memorize the rhythm of our dancing 

until the sun cracks and scatters like melted

caramel over our lyrical licks of legs that—

tangled from the night—are sticky from 

honey and sex


your smile alarms me, disarms me,

shakes me up and down,

wraps me around your finger

like bodies melted in dance

an old ballad spinning and unspinning

on the record player

my fingers run through your long

strands of hair and the air rushes

freely into my chest as i catch you

in my arms, and you laugh, and the paint

from the art of you drips on my lips

like rain


her beautiful body—curves that still twist

my mouth into labyrinths—has given me

children and launched a thousand dreams 

across the oceans she shares with me,

and she is still scintillating to me when

she sways, still sends my head into a spin,

planting tulips and future empathies across 

my imagination, 

and there are fields and fields of poppies 

behind us, splashing up from puddles of love 

and wishes, sending sparks of seeds floating 

forever ahead—a path of petals made from the 

kisses yet to come


she's a breeze of lyrics tickling the skin

on my arm into goosebumps, a love poem

whispering softly like a scared secret rising

to the flesh at the back of my neck,

and she is a song that swirls in the gut, a

wreck on the roof of my heart,

and when she sleeps, her face is as calm

as a child's, but her dreams keep her dancing

in my direction, swaying in the mellifluous

seas she sends me, never descending into

ordinary breathing—always the softest

breezes that perfectly navigate the stars

that decorate her nighttime hair


the shoulder of her blouse slowly drips down

her arm, exposing some skin—so smooth

and colored by crayola perfects—and it might

as well bend my mind into ecstasies to follow

that line of her collarbone up to the fingers that

are swirling around her earring, toying with

my heart like some carousel's song, spinning

the stud like it turned the wheels of my imagination

into kaleidoscopes, making me dizzy until i catch

my balance in her stare, get snatched away into her

magical, watery blues and sink into serendipity



i've collected glasses of rain for you, 

searched seas of greenest clover for 

four leaves of luck to tuck in your hair, 

and i've ticked off love-me-nots from

spring's reddest tulips to guess at the

hope of your lips' kisses, 

but none of this measures the soft music 

of your body, your hands unfurling 

like pages of poems sprinkling sweetest 

fingers on me like rain— 

rain i'll collect for you all my life


her leg drapes over my legs, and it

sways with the passion of our kisses

and to the rhythm of the songs we sing

at night,

and she sings something so familiar, yet

far away, in her soft breathing, and the heat

is so full of desire that my heart burns like

a furnace and melts her song on my skin,

and that song becomes a puddle we rest

in, sleep in its cool, wet vibrations, try to

learn the meaning and the depth of its melody

—a tickle i write across her thighs


she twists me like a yellow ribbon around

her hand, weaves me into her elegant fingers

before skillfully spinning me through her

heaps of muddy hair,

and the smell of that hair is a naked memory,

pure, free from pasts and futures, furling and

unfurling like fields of wild flowers, colors

bursting and bleeding into landscapes like

watercolors running down the screens of my


and i'll rest there, covered in a blanket of

home's comforts and wait for her to press

me in her book, to feel the sophisticated

shape of her story unfolding like an origami

flower long soaked in the puddles of subtlest

perfume near her neck


there are tender moments from the past

running down the windows of my mind

like condensation drips, falling from a line

i've drawn with hot fingers in the shape

of your knee, where i have run my hands,

painting your knees and thighs with the

colors of my desire,

and i catch a drop of that condensation

rain, close my eyes and taste it like a kiss

i remember from the pages of this story

we built with hands and drips and wanting



she drives me home each night,

her hand on my chest, guiding

my heart toward the starlit horizon


her lips cover me with oncoming lights

that grow long and streaky from the heat

— slow and sleepy—and her head rests

on my shoulder, spills sleep over my skin,

where dreams of her are painted on me

with ghosts of hands and lips, and the

weight of all our wishes unfolds and flies

away with lightest wings to clouds

overflowing with rain, falling hard like

static on startled skin


there is a depth behind her eyes that's

not just for the poet's pleasure, nor is it

superficial or purely beauty-based, it is

a stage where curtains rise and characters

play, it is where cities of ideas are developed,

and where lights are born at night,

in her eyes is the meaning of the stars, where

distances collapse and infinity lights breathe

against the walls of the body, swim into

her oceans, feeding deeper electricities

to the current of her deep blue eyes, shining

the loveliest light at our eternal return


the air is damp, as summer's last whisper

rolls over my arms with gooseflesh,

and the grass shines like emeralds from her

dewy fingers, and the dirt beneath us seems

to breathe as i turn toward the sound of her


and we've spent time together—me and her

and the grass—pressing words and ideas into

each other's skin,

and i tell her that i'll remember and she asks

me not to forget, and i promise to know her

when she returns by the yellow dress she

swears she'll wear


she's the shade from the savage

august sun, the dark curves that

caress me with a shadow so serene

that it whispers sonnets over my needy


and when the slightest breezes blow,

and the dry, hungry leaves make a noise

like a rain dance, i close my eyes and

see her swaying my way—her dress

wrapped tight around her hips but

climbing, climbing up those thighs,

releasing the summer clouds of their

last tears


the shimmering lights of the night are like 

glitter in your nighttime hair, and the shape 

of your body is the shape of the same sleep

that sings me to dream of slowest descending


and while i'm dawdling over dreamscapes, 

i'll count the steps to the sound your mouth 

makes before a kiss—like a bird opening a 

song, or a heart wonderfully breaking— 

and only the moon knows how blue i am without 

your shimmer and shine, or how deep i dive to 

find you when drowsiness catches me in its 

spiderweb fingers—as long and sticky sweet as 

the starry lights of your hair


the pieces of her i carry with me

decorate my mind like baubles,

sparkles of sweet truth, youthful

candles to light when the days

are dark, glimmers in the water

to chase when my body cries out

for the rain of her kisses

but baubles know that, though there

is beauty written on their surface,

they're only representations of beauty,

they reflect the past from mirrors marred

by distance,

and the smudges of her fingers on my

face have faded,

and it becomes more difficult for me

to remember how the sparks from her

rainy kisses felt—dripping fidgets of fire

down my face


i try to understand the curves of your hands,

but lose the thread on the soft blips and whoas

of your fingers,

and i try to to know the curves of your breasts

but the loopy lines melt my mind into puddles

of warm ahhhs,

and the flesh of your stomach softly swooping

to the hips is the drug of you that sends me

flying highest, sings ethereal songs so lightheaded

that i lose all meaning and definition of time,

and i sit with the opium soaked poets in a world

apart, stut-stut-stuttering, searching for you again

in a sea of words rushing toward shhhhhh shhhhhh


i hold her soft body tight in my arms,

measure the distance from hip to hip

with my careful hands, weigh the weight

of her head on my chest, aware that every

beat of my heart is racing to catch up

to the beating of her heart,

and when she confronts me with the touch

of her lips, the scent of her hair, or the air i

breathe when she's against me like this,

i know the rush of every wonderful wave,

its floods of foam and hands, and the power

of every frenzied wind that swirls the guts

and pulls us tight as a fist


i've imagined you doused in moonlight, 

water dancing at your feet, making 

vibrant shadows move the liquid light 

around your body like a movie flickering 

you to a dance, a dance where dreams 

grow landscapes for us to run through, 

where we get tangled up in the trees of 

our thirsty arms, 

and when we're caught in the sweet teeth 

of sleep, the pink flowers that float atop

the limbs will lead us a path back to life, 

still hugged in the leafy arms of love, 

wet with kisses and covered by the moon’s 

lazy smears of fingerprints


a remarkable reflection of her form

flips on and then off again as a leaf

falls from october's slender arm,

she's slowly spinning, flickering one

side off the sun and then dimming on

the other,

and she moves in slow motion, dances,

burrows into the hole she left in my


and a picture unfolds of her—bright

with smiling—tucking a tuft of hair

behind her ear,

and when the lens flare gets too loud

and the autumn chill kicks up its dust,

the leaf crashes down without so much

as a whisper


she's standing in the center of an answer

to a question i didn't know i asked, a

question about where the death of things

goes after we've wrapped them around the

stems of our memories,

and those curves of hers—the breathing,

beating animal of her—all sift away into

the art of the world, a picture of a fantasy

that's distant but still lights fires for me

at night,

and the creation of a world built by memory

is only as beautiful as all the pretty petals

we've left behind, showing us the way to

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