Whistling for Moonbeams

Kiss me in the rain, Love, quiet my fears with the light in your eyes. Take me everywhere with you, tie my hand to yours. I want to step ...

How silently the heart pivots on its hinge - Jane Hirschfield The night is full of sighs. Doleful, longing. The darkness stretches...

I am roused by the sound of raindrops pattering against glass. Beside me, you are asleep, and I watch the steady rise and fall of your ches...

Hungry anchor to my mooring-- fastened, fierce; glow of firelight clinging  to surfaces, your skin  on mine, your rage entwine...

I hear the door click shut and I start to panic. My scrambled eggs are a mess and I just realized I had put too much oil in the pan for the...

Your face, lit by the pale glow of a candle-- I gasp and ask myself if anything could be more beautiful, if any other man could take my b...

Elsewhere, it is twilight. Elsewhere, I hear your footfalls on the wooden planks that lead to our doorstep. My heart is fluttering with but...

Teach me to walk away: from what hurts me, where I am not needed, where I intrude, where I am but shadow, where I cause pain. Teach ...

" In the heart of the wood, a god learns too late: love transforms never quite in one way." - J. Neil C. Gar...

Words elude me tonight, Love. I am filled only with prayer that your path and mind be lit with starlight and moonshine, that your thoughts ...

The sky is painted a certain shade of lonely today; the sun is sulking behind willing clouds. I take a walk among the dunes, my bare feet...

"Look how the stars shine so tonight, Love, see how they illuminate the darkness. We still haven't decided on our constellation, b...

Because what you have done, Love, was to gift me with the discovery that I could go so much farther and do so much more. Did you catch a...

I ask for nothing, my Love, nothing. I teach myself to map the stars, instead; learn the language of dreams, instead; decipher the pa...

I draw the curtains and sit on the high stool by the window, waiting for you to come home. I have tried writing almost the entire day yeste...

I pinpoint a particular, an exact length of time, A blur of seconds, one after another, and another, and another: Just before she di...

And because we choose not to hurt other people, we hurt ourselves, instead.

There was no music-- or was there? The music was inside my head like it always is when you are near. I heard strings, and a lone trumpe...

Then why did we worship clarity, to speak, in the end, only each other's names? - Louise Gluck I teach myself the mechanics of bla...

it is, and fear, it must be that has made her summon the wind to push her feet ever into a run over damp trail, thorn and leaf, across...

I kneel on the grass, weeding. There are no blooms to be seen, and I am a little angry at you for leaving this garden desolate. It is cover...

--the dark red they call Brennende Liebe, which I find so beautiful. - Louise Gluck Amaranthine, the sunset, where we are. The eyes, fo...

A train station is one of the worst places for a chase. If this were a movie, the tall guy in the blue shirt knows his chances of success...

"No more drinks for you tonight," you, whispering into my ear, whisking my glass away. "That tickles," I cower and gi...

"Ahoy, Captain!" I do not budge from the book I'm reading, but from behind my dark glasses, I watch you run toward where I...

- Pablo Neruda I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz, or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off. I love you as certa...

The soft lights of blue lamps lend our surroundings a peaceful, muted glow. Hours ago, the place was alive with sound--tinkling glass, laug...

Stay the heart that rages in its cage, furious in its muteness. Desire is fluid, doing all that water does: simmer and rise to heights,  ...

I lean on the wooden counter and rest my cheek against my palm. There is accounting to be done--the year is about to end--but I would rathe...

Begin with alliteration. For example: flickering firelight, tentative tenderness, shivering shorelines, preempt this predicament, cling to c...

In journeys we are completely at the mercy, not of memory but of the road  we take, which carries us across moonlit worlds and skins at ...

We open at six o'clock. You are always up hours before, and you always have to pull--carry--me out of bed and I, still warm from y...

Descending from your flight to madness, still shaky from the breathlessness of the tempest, you step down and plant your feet firmly on ...

And you are everywhere even as you are nowhere in touch, for here is the place things cherished are laid bare in-- the edge of body...

"They took to silence. They touched each other without comment and without progression. A hand on a hand, a clothed arm, resting on a...

" And when I go away from here, this will be the mid-point, to which everything ran, before, and from which everything will run....

Your name lingers near my mouth like a kiss that never quite happens-- fingertips hovering over delicate wineglass, breeze brushing past l...

I look for you in the rustling restlessness of moments. I long for the peace of your presence--if these quickenings be peace, if these flu...

For what is longing but the space between the absence of the beloved and their presence? Still, the minutes stretch like miles in the pathwa...

"But now, love, we are here, we are now, and those other times are running elsewhere."         - A. S. Byatt, Possession I h...

Soul-like, something slips from my grasp and goes to you. A promise? A sigh? A question? Something--a word, a phrase. I cannot quite be su...

What sadness is this, what woe? I can hear the waves crashing to shore, only the sound is receding, only the blue, dimming. What ails the ...

Because I was afraid of the recognition my light had seen in yours, I ran, and ran. And as I ran, I threw shafts of darkness your way, conju...

" Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real." - Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses Forty three years ...

" Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real." - Cormac McCarthy, All the Pretty Horses Forty three years ...

You slump into a couch, exhausted. A host of thoughts flits by--faces, names, faces with names, nameless faces, random names, random faces--...

Strange things happen, sometimes. Sometimes, we are not where we are, we are somewhere else. This evening, the sea is beside us--the s...

Here is one last faith in metaphor. That it must do what it's meant to, and draw you near. Abstraction is the silence of skin: - f...

"It's like I'm falling out of bed From a long, weary dream The sweetest flowers and fruits hang from the trees Falling o...

On a rainy day, one entertains thoughts similar to rain. The general chill in the air becomes a prolonged brush of coldness against reluctan...