A Biography

It feels so good to be cold again.

But this is more of a lukewarm,
And yet it still makes me smile--
A little less than last time
And even less than the time before that--
All in reminiscence of my first
Aspen winter.

I was a September baby
And you can't ever let me forget it.
I tasted a morsel of summer
In the
Lukewarm
Rays of a dwindling solace
Until that something of a dreamer
In me
From you
Saw something simultaenously
Frozen and aflame.

Everything licked me at once
And I was smothered
In such "abrasive"
That I can't have all to myself like you can.
They changed me with their sticky tongues,
The moon and
The sky and
The coastline and
The mountains and
The look on your face when your heart was breaking
All over again
While you sang to me
The words you once wrote.

Its all encapsulated,
The things that changed me--
All of it encapsulated but
Me.

I got through one hell of a winter
With the promise of living again
In the heat

But on lukewarm nights
When the sky doens't cradle me
Like it used to,
I hear your voice and

I desperately miss the shiver.

The Beauty of Hidden Moonshine

A lady in the sky tonight is telling me that I am meant to be this convoluted. I buzz towards her, captivated by the idea of licking the remnants of her from between my fingers. I reach out into the night, gingerly at first, whispering, "I know you don't wanna come out, sister honey, but I bet you taste so sweet."

I can hear the moon smirk at me but no one else can. They see her sitting pretty behind the cold front of steel gray masses that makes her seem cold, too. She's warm and I can feel it, but not when she smirks in that way that only I can sense, penetrating my blood and bone. The moon wants to make me feel crazy, and she knows I'm crazy just for her and her alone.

I come out here every foggy night, no matter what I have going on behind the closed curtains. I couldn't care less when the sky is perfect-- I'd rather be draped in the limbs of a very imperfect lover, or even sprawled on my bed alone and bare as one big unworthy and utterly predictable mess. There's something about my sister that drives me to her side like a worker bee to raw pollen. I could make something beautiful out of her, I assure myself, as I reach out farther and farther to the silent clamor of no avail.

Sometimes, I hear her in my dreams, when the night breathes her in and her vapor awakens all senses. Her voice lathers me in buttermilk:

"You can be art, too, if you keep your chin as high as your heart."