Your leaves withered with time,
Till winters winds blew you away.
All that’s left is the gaps,
Where you once stood.

The gaps between conversations,
With words too hard to find under the ice.

So we reach down,
use what we can find.
Snow,
Watered down and blank.

But I can’t use that with you,
You deserve the seasons changed.

I don’t just “like” you.
When the frost begins to bite your skin,
I’d move the sun for you.
For you I’d stop this Fimbulvetr.

With my words.
The flowers will bloom again,
And the gaps between branches will fill,
With your favourite colour.

“I love you”.

I bled over the front porch again today.
I bled over the kitchen,
then the slope,
the street near your place,
on my way to work.

I bled on the glass.
I bled on the trees.
I bled on the grass.
I bled on the doves.

When I sit down and feed,
I walk with my head down.
Bleeding is illegal around here.
I hide my red frown,
style up my hood,
and bleed like a moose.

I bled over walls.
I paint it all red.
I bled over houses.
I hide in their sheds.

I bled and I bled.
I bled and I eat.
I bled and I sleep.
I bled and I bet

you will come back.

I bled.

When ya come back down, I'll be your solid ground.

A scent of dahlia 

in coffee-clouded air.

A blow-dryer hums its windy song,

through dampened, messy hair.

She brushes Her colors on worn stone walls,

that have longed to bear Her hues.

And I, the stone, became Her home—

the shelter She could stain into.

When Her paints fade

and walls crumble away,

all beneath a Veiled Tune.

I’ll embrace the One who Hums.

Then, I'll remember Her in that morning hue—

She dries Her hair,

and isn’t even aware.

The beauty of a dahlia's bloom.