C.S. Lewis

God lends us a little of His reasoning powers and that is how we think. He puts a little of His love into us and that is how we love one another. When you teach a child writing, you hold its hand while it forms the letters: that is, it forms the letters because you are forming them. We love and reason because God loves and reasons and holds our hand while we do it.

Hum of life...

this city hasn't heard silence
since bohemians found the beat
industrial exhaust and bent-railed screech
cling to the night air
hide in your ears

subway stations filled with voices
of prophets and lovers
the rattle of change in paper cups
the unrealized dreams of street musicians
lingering like the condensation of hand prints on windows

but there is something soothing
in the chaos outside these walls
distant sirens, trains discord
bodega shelves being stocked
club goers returning home

the thrilling hum of life.

Heart attack...

you mention the strength of my back
trace the curves of my
shoulders with your fingers.
you speak of the past and
how it wrestled with our hearts,
how they came out mangled
yet fiercer than before.

in the face of danger
i would fight off the wildest animal
if its glare met yours.
i have no doubt that, for you, i can be strong.
the fear lies in losing you.
that what is under the sinew and bone
of this back is a network of veins
pumping blood through my ribcage to my heart.
that what has been mangled before
can be mangled again.
that the wild animal would
tear this body to shreds.
loss defeating love.

Same hands...

you are different
but you have the same hands
the same mouth
so it's hard not to remember
that our hands used to fit together
so perfectly on a night—any night—
spent on the couch, television on.
now we stiffen
as our hands graze one another
inches apart on the same couch.
your same hands.

The single have no bedtime...

the single have no bedtime
no curfew to meet
they may stay up for hours in front of the computer's glow
they may not leave the sofa until 3 a.m.
groggily making their way to cold beds, dark rooms

they are not prodded by the internal clock of another
there is no finishing prize
no warmth beside them
no heavy breath in the midnight air
just the rustling of sheets as insomnia sets in

Molasses...

time should be more like

the black molasses

sitting in a jam jar

on my grandmother's window sill

try to pour it out

it comes slow and easy

as it moves you watch

dip your fingers in and put them to your lips

taste its sweetness

Night after night...

He remembered the first time he slept beside her. Heavy eyelids, voices trailing, her hand resting on his thigh.

The next night, lying in the dark, he felt a soft hand looking for the same spot it had been the night before. Once her hand was in place, he felt her body relax as she let out a sigh and fell asleep. And so this continued the night after that. And the night after that.

One night, as they were turning down the covers, he looked at her with a slight smile and asked, “Why do you put your hand on my leg every night before we go to sleep?” She answered, "Well, as long as I am touching you I know you are there, even if I’m somewhere else in my dreams." She paused for a moment. "I know how you love to travel, and when my dreams take me extraordinary places you have a better chance of coming along if we’re connected."