Waving from Such Great Heights

Perhaps I fell in love when I was far too young, when February rains had not yet  turned the ground; no bright, new flowers had been painted in by the spring.  I fell in love when I was fresh and gently preened,  new, raw feathers flushed by a late September sunset, red glow bypassed to turn the whole world pink. Then rainclouds razed the earth cracked lightning in their grasp to scream thunderous loud; each plink spraying frosted bolts against its blackest countenance. Rain wet the ground and then turned tail beneath the wings of caustic winter snow.  My young heart beat so fast and out of tune - perhaps the yawn of his mouth  erased my love of loneliness - perhaps when I felt out of my lovers arms and hit the ground at speed - was this when I realized: nineteen is far too young to try to count forever when you only have ten fingers? His brunet eyes and walnut hair gripped tight inside my soul; just as the dusty rose of his matching lips and palms...

My anger precedes me because she is a war horse, rough stallion with sharp teeth for gnashing, and a hand full of her enemies hair. My anger precedes me because she has no patience, her inhibitions are made faulty by the long stretch that incurs her wrath, and the tendrils of fire which fall from fingertips better made for caressing. My anger precedes me because when she falls down, you must fall with her, and the fall is long, hard, and rough; tumultuous in its landings, uncomfortable in the silence. My anger precedes me because I am not strong enough, and I must displace her until I am, until her raw, seething visage, is nothing more than a shadow on your back, and I have lost your image. There's something to be said about anger, with it's loose canon grip. There's something to be said about the times that cause your slipping words to catch within my wild heart, as if by some prayer, I will not hear the words you meant to say. But I heard them. My An...

The horizon, stretched out in front of me, looked  like a great ochre mass,  pillars of land that stretched  up for years, reaching towards stars that were  obscured only by the  sun, which hung low in the  late Augustine sky. Her  visage  was blue, and his  was blue.  The road was long, long, long, with emphatic  choruses  of passing semi-trucks,  and all I could think of  was you and your shaking hands  of tempered glass.  Times  like these, I needed relief. A quiet, frantic mass of histamines   gathering within sinus',  just waiting to explode. As if,  by some unclear voyage, I was  made unholy by the presence  of you  within my mind. I think there  was an answer,  somewhere, in the dark;  that dark was made darker by  the absence of streetlamps, just  headlights to illuminate that  blackest tarmac, which glided seamlessly ben...