poetry?

i'll meet you in damascus

the look in your eye and the tone of your voice
as you invited me out for a cigarette...
comparable to how the air tastes after it snows,
sharply convoluted but,
comfortably familiar.

and i wonder if you noticed the desperation
in the wet, white smoke that left my mouth,
passing slowly past my lips and
quietly evaporating into the oddly warm, thanksgiving night breeze.


boundless

fragile dawn air -
no match for sleeping faces.
the breeze -
biting and pinching
anything that
dares to move.
a boastful, bulb-like
6am sun
that shocks an unsuspecting
body of water,
sending steam to its surface -
a feeble attempt at protection.

our bare feet imprint themselves
on dew stained grass and
patches of smooth,
chilled sand as our
palms perspire.

five years doesn't
help me forget
the feeling of how i grabbed your hand and
the feeling of how you let go.

the summer morning,
a witness to when i
should have stopped trying,
but only tried harder.