oh look who it is

yes yes yes.

I know.

I am here aren’t I? Who are you going to complain to?

Exactly.

Take some poems and shut up (I love you)

She has dimmed all the beauty in the world but her own.
loving a bright light makes everything a little darker when it goes.
She has dimmed all the beauty in the world but her own.
-A

I know this type of game.
the kind thats ruled by sin and stains
she plays well 
but she is playing with a bastard

I know the cards she plays
the hidden ace
I’ve played so much it’s seems
with every card I know just what she’s after.

How can she be so pretty as a lover.
and yet still be so ugly as a master.
-A

The building of the house,
of straw and mud and love,
of trust and rust and the breaking of hands.
The building of the house 
in the forest where the trees canopy above you and me
and we no longer see the sky
the gentle glowing of the moon.
or the passionate shining of our sun
The building of the house.
blown down by the billowing of years.
blown down in the gale of betrayal not yet had.
The building of the house.
and its many rooms
both our painting rooms
your office and mine
our separate lives inside
the building of the house.
the garden yet unplanted
the hedges that haven’t grown high enough
to hide the many lives we could have lived.
the building of the house
with its many windows
that look out to nothing.
and our heater doesn’t work.
and the faucet that’s gone dry

The building of the home.
a placeless space
where our love lives
made of our bodies
our hearts and mind and our bones.
the building of the home
that exists between many miles
that exists across so much time
the building of the home
with its endless rooms
our joint office, 
cluttered with our many thoughts
and together we paint outside
Under the sun and moon 
both high in that endless sky

it’s in the building of the home
not the building of the house
That I wanted to live.
-A