This is not the
end of life;
this is a street lamp
moth in a tunnel,
a cocktail of me
during mixing process
and need grows within
the glass, to
give -
For the one who has undone my lip knots:
I leave you the
enjambment of
jaw poetry,
the pinks of
a good inside
joke, and the
snow ballerinas;
For the one who has woven me into the light:
For you, the mud
on my forehead,
eternity, and the
feeling after
showering
in a few lines
on how to conquer.
For the one who has listened to my black noise:
In you I sew the
multiplication table
of sympathy, a
way to disagree
that ends with
compromise about
miracles.
For the one who understood without understanding:
To you, a child
knee’s gratitude,
memories carved
in the wood of
our thoughts, and
the day you saved
me from stray tears.
For the one who has forced the alphabet of life down my throat:
I leave you the
pride and a secret
metaphor about my
old desk, the boat
of movement
and anchor
of thrills.
For the one whose echo murmurs like a river through my poetry:
For you, my
whitest word’s
skating trick,
the beginning
of a new expression
in hope to heal the world.
For the one whose eyes have shone brighter than a traffic light:
I leave you the
new age confidence,
the shy steps, and
the stone that felt
so much less cold
when your soles
baptized it.
For the one whose smile turned the earth spherical:
In you, I
couldn’t hope
to bring back
all the moonlight
your words offered,
the way your hair looked
so perfect for trust.
For the one whose mouth began a new era:
To you, I cannot
send a golden apology
or the flying kiss
of a dove’s olive leaf;
only a weak sigh
will I leave you, the way
you taught me to love.
For the one who has given and taken and given too much to write about:
I leave you the
forecast script that said
we’d finally have sunshine
for breakfast, the
platinum clasp of
friendship, and more
than a pixel joke.
To the one whose existence lingers in my bones:
For you, something
to make the big bang
jealous, something
my hands cannot yet
conceive, the mixing
process and each bite of
sun I have ever swallowed.
- and thank you stumbles
upon the fields in my
voice, as you accept
my pitiful excuse for a
gift.
Adding your comment:
, Though again, I can't see if you post it on your page 
. Can't go to your page for a few weeks 
Yeah, sorry about that title, but with you it was indeed too much variation for any other title 
