August

There is an empty house
In the middle of nowhere
The only place we can belong.

There is a summer we never had
And another chance to be who
We are truly meant to be.

There is a warm night of silence
While the walls of the room
Witness the revival of beauty.

There is the faint light from
A candle illuminating our
Two shadows becoming one.

There is a silent devotion reserved
For our bodies as they speak the words
We can never say out loud to each other.

There is a sonnet on my lips
You read with yours and drink
The words that go unspoken.

There is a meadow of fireflies
Where nature smiles upon
The reunion of our souls.

There is a consistent aching
Infecting my lungs from breathing
in the air of your absence.

There is a certainty our love
Will always exist at least
In the paradox of oblivion.

There is the August we never had
And ten thousand years lived
Together in only these few nights.

There is an empty house
In the middle of nowhere
Waiting for us in August.

The Paradigm of Love

Plato’s forms capture the essence
Of an universal definition to
The concepts we want to believe
Have some consistency
Or at least exist.

Though dangerous to define what we believe
Through our individual experiences
When the world is constantly revolving
There’s an urgent sense of relativity
I cannot ignore when defining

Love.

Since you’ve left I’ve roamed
This land and a handful of men
And met many philosophies
To grace my speculative intellect
And keep me up at night.

Yet In every line of poetry,
Love story summarized in verse or film
One reoccurring redundancy
Captures my imagination each time
Your face appears in perfect

Paradigm.

There’s a paradox alive in this passion
How can there be such
Consistency in my relativity
And persistence of your memory
When deciphering the paradigm of

Love.

Myth

I leave the door unlocked
You silently enter, I pretend
Not to notice
Not to be surprised
But inside
I’m singing.

Our minutes are few
Usually dark with
Only a candle light
When the sun once
Shone everyday
Alive on our
Love.

We’re both uncertain
As we can never leave
This room together
What’s left of our time
Is exhibited once or twice
A month in the most
Innate ways.

And we settle
And accept futility
Lay down together
Where our minutes
Are filled with more
Life than 100 years
Of the commoner.

There is a rapture
Between our bodies
the antithesis of
The world outside
Yet our vernacular
Is spoken through
Our bodies’ embrace.

The night deepens
Our tides crest
A moment of deep breathing
To interrupt the still
Of our silence I desire
To tell you how I have
Loved you all along.

Our minute has passed
As the seasons change
I feel your arms around me
Once more before I lock
The door and wonder maybe
If our myth will last
Forever.