I wish I were an artist. Trace your curvature of lines in vivid detail and remark on the thickness smooth lips as they intense with hues of graphite and stencil. Wish I could paint vividly. an encased reverie of just you and I to become we. oh, how I wish to be the stroke on your body and retrace its endings and firm beginnings, retold in pastels, water soluble paints and revamped historical perspectives. I only wish to capture the image of you. Recapture the soul and eyes of orbs encased in the human skull so hard to shift elements in globs of watercolor. tell tales of high cheekbones and broad shoulders free following of a pencil in raised eyebrows and sympathetic frowns. A white eraser clings nearby, swiftly chasing hopes and dreams, lines drawn dark holed black and now vanishing  in dematerialized crumpled portraits. -b.r.rivera Poem 22 of 30, April 2012 #30in30

its broken. kinda like the sweet sparrow dropping hard from its nest its wing flapping hard against the dust of the earth eyes wild and unforgiving, trying hard not to feel sorry for itself and establishes within its mind that it has a broken wing. i wonder if I can fix it. be the invisible cast crimson in creation where miracles happen beyond the skies in pleasurable and comfortable existence. its discarded. merely a decomposed state of composition hidden with maggots and live insects swarming to infect and circumspect the small pieces of flesh exposed from hard calcified bone and marrow. it lays there, a piece blowing in the wind no longer recyclable to be sorted in large aqua blue tubs to be reinvented into plastic cups that once again, someone will throw away. and I wonder. wonder if I can fix it.  be the mending stitch that sways smooth firmness on  supple skin, avoiding infection and  regaining cellular regeneratio...

I don't remember his scent. I only remember fresh musk and dew sweat hidden in his sudden fragrance. How skin meets beyond pheromones and mutual attraction fire and desire and the chain to cause his reaction. A smile. gleaming white teeth filled with shiny pearl possibilities of tickling my spine in the nape of my neck brings the thrill to me. i begin to remember. remember his smooth walk of gliding asphalt and what I call swag. Smoke bellowing from his lips cigarettes of menthol in a wisp of his drag. and his talk. the way he would command his voice in clear octaves, bounce several degrees and be a lyrical gift go deeper, deeper still into jazzy voices and sweet hellos hidden goodbyes and empty cries. he was mine. I was his and I don't remember his scent. Don't remember his birthday which to pop out a cake suit-less anniversary marking a date full of love excess his favorite food he often devoured his special spot that gave me ...