FOR PEYTON:

I'm not really sure what to say because you already wrote this poem.

I know you see I'm shaken but maybe I can tell you that your big screen silver soul played me a scene of endless summer, day melting into night melting into day

And we would stay to watch the sunrise brighten the sky before our eyes.

Just you and I

And a thousand quiet ghosts behind us, separated only by years.

But you and I

Are separated only by molecules and I can hear your heart beating

And I can't help but pretend that we aren't pretending, that endless and infinite are within the reach of my grasping fingers, like silver and starlight.

But flowers don't last very long and even the stars burn out eventually

And I can feel the strain on this rope that runs between us.

Hold it tight  'cause I would never let you fall but now I'm scared my careless heart will tear this fragile line to pieces and leave me hanging off the edge alone.

I'm shaking 'cause she holds your heart in her pocket and I've been taking my time but his candy coated promises are dissolving and I'm finding that they never tasted that good anyways.

So take my hand and hold it tight and don't give up on me

Cause even though I know you're taken
I'm still shaken.

-SHUG

Golden Girl

Storm-chaser, flame-keeper, wind-dancer

Breathless and reckless

Destroying everything in her path, she leaves a trail of creation springing from her footsteps.

Dreams like Titans, words like rainfall, words like summer, words like stars.

Sky-watcher, light-finder, night-wanderer

Crooked and cluttered

Wild and untamed, she sits in silent solitude and washes the frantic conversations and deep bass beats from the corners of her mind and the crevices of her soul

Hopes like fireworks, fears like heartbreaks, fears like failures, fears like loss.

Ignore her shaking limbs for her heart speaks courage, and her eyes speak courage and her trembling hand wears a badge of bravery. 

Ignore her insecurity, obscurity, immaturity.  She is frightened and indecisive but her future beckons and she prays that she won't be forgotten. 

Ignore her selfishness and her sin.  She asks to hear your definition of salvation but her soul sings a deeper truth than the one she is told.

Dream-weaver, scar-counter, blood-runner

Prayerful and playful

Speaking softer than silence, she listens louder than the crash of billions of drops of water breaking on the sand.

Wishes like candles, thoughts like skylines, thoughts like wildflowers, thoughts like rooftops.

Remember her, she is golden.

Match

That day was hot and dry and I guess we were both restless.

Mama always said don't play with matches and any fool could have told you we were asking for trouble, especially on a day like that.  Well, trouble has a way of turning up whether you ask it to or not and the two of us were practically begging.

I don't remember which one of us struck the match but I think you were the one who dropped it.  Lord knows I did my fair share to fan the flame once we started though.

It was fun at first.  It was a bit of a thrill and it felt good.  The heat felt good, your teeth felt good and it felt good to dance out of the way of the flame just before it licked our skin and left its angry red signature down our calves.

I guess we weren't fast enough though, and before I knew it my t-shirt and sweats were no longer a barrier, and not even your spring cool fingertips could sooth my feverish skin.  I was intoxicated by my own blood, by the smell of your cologne and the sting of smoke in my eyes.

You can't stop a wildfire once you set it loose and I couldn't stop your hard, callused hands from making their rounds across my body.  I couldn't unlock your fingers from my hipbones or stop you from pulling me closer every time I stepped away, and I couldn't stop us from self-destructing once we lit that match.

I couldn't stop the smell of smoke from lingering, either, and I cried myself to sleep that night.

That night was hot and dry and I was left bruised and broken and I guess you were still restless.

The highway sets the traveler's stage.

Wanderlust.  They all say it.  Wanderlust.

They whisper it on their indie blogs and behind the dusty shelves of secondhand bookstores and they all say it.

Wanderlust.

Wanderlust, or just an urge to run?  Ain't that what you do when there's no where to hide and fighting back never had a fighting chance?

"Let's get a silver bullet trailer and have a baby boy."

Maybe I would miss you less in a trailer halfway across the country.  Then again, maybe I would miss you more.

He and I could run away together.  I always did run to him when you didn't want me.  I always ran to him and tried to convince myself that the two of us were still something special.  This time around was not much different.  I still called him up but this time the lust was gone and I couldn't lie to myself anymore.

But he and I, we could run away together.  We could buy a trailer and see the world.  I'd read about you though.  I'd see your name in the papers when you made it big time and I'd still name my son after you.

But he and I, we would be okay.  I'd let him laugh at my dreams and tell me how he'd be better off without me.  I could be what he wants, and when he touched me I'd close my eyes and pretend that it was you.  And when we finished making love I would hold my son to my chest and whisper lullabies in his ear.

I'd sing a song of longing and loss, and about how I hoped he'd grow up like you instead of his like his daddy.  I'd show him your picture in the paper and I'd tell him the story of how you stole and broke my heart.  I'd tell him about the magic you held in your eyes and in your voice and I would teach him how to dance.

And I'd write you letters.  One for everyday of my life without you.  I'd never mail them though, I'd tie each one to a red balloon and let it slip between my fingers, and every balloon, every letter, would take with it a piece of my soul until I was nothing but an empty shell.

"All exits look the same."