We've been holding tightly to the day ..
to the light and loss of thought,
and we've spent hours fighting with its sway
pleading for a truant dark.
Our bodies bear the burden.
Our bodies bear the burden.
The dusk, the night, an evening meant for talking
a pull, a fight, much too weak for conquering.
We remember the forgotten
when there are no more birds to follow.
And we discover where our heart is
when the one we love has hollowed.
Keep us safe and let the stars stay sleeping.
Make our way, and keep the night from thieving.
We need relief. We need to be deceived.

We ran the water in the evening,
our hands beneath the spout,
deciding for themselves
when to say, "No more."
We talked from either side,
our words against the tile ...
a ripple in the water.
"I love the one in front of me."
Declarations made across a tiny sea.

I found a little boy
dressed in his father's clothes
making promises his mother wrote
seeming so grown up.
When it was time to sleep
he confessed to me that his
clothes were on the floor
left behind at the start of his sport.
A pair of tiny shorts
and a T-shirt stained with youth.
After putting him to bed
I pried his tiny fingers
and found a wrapped up baby tooth.
This boy was pretending.
Only pretending to be a man.
And now he's much too small to hold me
in the moment I can't stand.
And I will be much too old by the time he is grown.


Goodnight, goodbye, little love.
Our lark was gold for its short run.

Light along the bottom layers
descending with the sun.
A night of pursuing failures..
a trail of way-wards,
increasing with the birth of new ones.
This wind travels with debris
a kind of collection
that often seems to follow me.
If we've wandered off too far
or forgotten where we're from
how can we return,
when our paths expire with the sun?
I've acquired an insightful whisper
one that tells me when to move
and when to remain still.
But with each new moment
I've begun to question the motives
of the demands I've been akin to.
Was I really meant to run?
Should I have never gone to bed?
The dreams I've been having
seem to stand for something that I can't understand.
And if its all just a matter of time,
I want to know how to adjust my clock.

White across the evening water
and a bird beneath the moon
is this the beauty you remain in,
is this your second home?
I swam the lengths of that great river
and learned about my name
that everything I've found and been through
has not left me the same.
I loved a boy and lost a friend
I found a God and left him again
I filled my heart to make it new
and I felt it break with the loss of you.
When can I come up?
When can I come back?
When will you discover
the life that we would have?
I've gone outdoors to think of things
because my house tonight is empty
and I'm thankful for these passing cars
they've been a sort of company.
We've talked about the loss of time
the loss of love ... the loss of life
we've mourned the death of every light
and the destinies that were left behind.


I'll stay outside until someone comes back home ...

Set in stone
a declaration never meant to be told
an ocean's promise to always pull
and a father's oath to never let go.
If what I've seen is truth
what can I do to keep the ones I love?
And if the truth is always changing
how can I ever believe the ones I trust?
The grass grew tall last night
I fell asleep before it rained
and woke up to its new height.
Green blades of new birth
wet streams proclaiming their worth
and yet I still feel the same.
I've been walking through them all day
discovering new family along the way.
We spoke of our pain
and how it only seems to linger
how the shade of our surroundings
only seem to foster
the dissent of something sweeter.
We've been exploring this together
bending our knees with the other
throwing dirt into the weather ..
saving celebration for the moment we see light.
David spoke of having hope
we listened to a dream he had
about a little girl
who wasn't sure which way she should go.
She wandered through an open field
crying for her father
she found a tree to sleep against
and waited for him to find her.
He wouldn't say how the story ended
but smiled and kissed our foreheads.
We fell asleep dreaming of our escape.
Tomorrow will be the day we find our way.

My questions have indeed bred revolution .. an upset to the order of things and a worry set deep in the body of my peace.

Out on the steps tonight
caught beneath your eyes and the dim street lights
watching the words you release,
like night clouds dissipating.
I'm warm but I can't stay still.

The air has bitten me
like a small child angry at what she sees.
This love is not easy,
I can't give you what you want from me.
I'm cold but I won't go inside.

The things you say are sounding pretty,
and every line is wrtten for me,
your heart is what holds me here.
But at the end of the question
I know I won't say yes.
And when the song has ended
I know you won't be missed.

Out on the coast tonight
caught beneath the moon and its forceful light
replaying what you said to me
about how love is the loss of everything.
I'm only now beginning to see
that when I found you,
I had already been emptied.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

Why does life lose excitement as we get older? Everything just feels different. Every now and then something will happen ... I will come across a familiar smell or a noise or a place and, for a fleeting moment, the nostalgia of it all creates a memory so deep in me that every part of my body responds.

I miss the feeling of being purely in the moment. I think that's such a huge difference between children and adults. We have lost the ability to stay where we are. Our bodies and our thoughts are always in two different places ... we can never fully enjoy anything ... it always comes with a stipulation .. whether it be the sacrifice of another thing, or, simply, an inevitable end to whatever good we've found.

As children, we don't worry ... we don't think ahead or understand the concept of consequences. We just do. And in the midst of that doing, we are fully present .. undistracted, unjaded, and completely optimistic.

A stranger asked me a question the other day. "If you were to write an auto-biography, what would the title of your book be?" He left and told me to find him once I had decided. I thought on it for a minute or two . "The Youngest of Them All."

I feel that way all of the time. Like I'm the only person screaming to be young again ... completely unprepared to be the age that I am ... and completely terrified of the expectation that is on me now to be independent, self-sufficient and flourishing. I feel let go of too soon. I am heartbroken by all of the pain that is around me. The injustice of it all and the confusion that that brings. However, reality has always been these things ... even when I was young .. I just didn't know it yet. The older we become, the more aware we become of the brokenness that has always been.

Perhaps that is why we are always covering the ears and eyes of children ... attempting to shelter them from the harshness and brutality of the world around them. Maybe that is why parents decide their kids can't watch violent shows or listen to music with bad language in it. Maybe that is why we often lie to children about why their mom passed away or why their dad has to go to rehab for three months. Maybe, what we are trying to do is preserve their innocence so that they continue to live blissfully as long as possible because we know that it will inevitably come to an end. And when it does, it will be heartbreaking.

Are we breathing in this?
Can we bear to comprehend it
the steady build of challenges
the instances of drowning
and the common thread of death.
We recite each others passions
against the walls and back again
the same sentences repeated
cloned ideas of condemnation.
"Stay away" we'd say.
By the grace of God, I've been running ever since.