Barely Breathing

For just a moment,
where your hand touches my hair
because you care, care more than
what words say.

For just a moment,
where stars are more than
rocks falling from the sky, maybe…
for a day.

Sometimes barely breathing…
envious of the moon, in all it’s spacious breathlessness.


Pink Pressed Flowers

I started to write you a letter,
on lineless paper, containing
pink pressed flowers; you could
almost smell the sweetness.
It’s bound in a book of leather;
so smooth to the touch.

I hope it died humainly.

For now, my skin is soft,
but it changes each day,
like the lines that grow
in story on my face.

(breathe in)
“Dust to dust little girl,”
the preacher said.
(breathe out)
In a dark underground church,
where the dirt was void of water.
(breathe in)
“Come, sit at the piano bench,”
he said.
(breathe out)
No music played,
nor could I hear the birds
singing outside in the sunshine.

But this letter is on lineless paper,
containing pink pressed flowers,
in a leather bound book.
It almost smells sweet…
in the death of memory
through the pages.