You stopped running.

I go faster and faster.
I stumble, skin my knees;
my hips and ankles ache.

I move, and
though I take lots of rests,
I move again.

When I saw you weren't
beside me anymore, I called
and called.

I am still calling.
I can't wait for you to catch up.

Even if I don't ever
hear your shoes thud,
your breathing, even if
I can't ever see your eyes again,
my pace won't falter.

Sidewalks and asphalt
rocky paths and fallen trees
dirt trails and sandy walkways-
He told me to keep walking,

so that's what I do,
and I pray God breathes into you
once more,
and you will be there,
running next to me again.

re-vision

There's something called discernment,
and it's hard to have from 521 miles away.

It's tough to believe you from that far,
and I want to believe

every single word, from trust to sister
but the rain hasn't come, and neither

has the light, only the waiting.

It's about time for me to stop looking
at you, not being able to see that far
anyway,

turn off the sound, and the picture,
and live in the light of today.

Fear Not

Just because people make drugs out of household cleaning products and
over-the-counter meds aren't anymore,

just because there are babies born addicted,

just because they are taking over whole neighborhoods
and towns with guns, white powder, and they are
stealing loose change from a car
breaking into a broken down trailer with 16 cats and 3 dogs
knowing where the rent money is stashed

just because some say it's the "end times"

and there are houses reeking of poison and piss

doesn't mean laughter
no longer exists

doesn't mean God is dead,

and when you plan to save them,
what do I do but sit and pray,
keep walking,
and stand out of your way?

the fast

There's prayer
in the apple
the orange juice
and the broccoli,
the spinach and the
water.

Daniel refused the
King's wine and meat,
and so can I.

When I am with God
things change. My
belly calls, and
only He can answer.

Tears wash my face,
and there is no milk
in the mixture.
I don't need it.

There are never any pieces
of me left when I end
up down there,
knees digging in.

I am calm, until I
climb out
longing for the noise
of men.

Their sounds snake around me,
and my knee holes fill up
with thoughts.

I can't keep them.
They aren't mine.

Listening to Him is hard,
and I get distracted
by the pretty faces,
so prominent,
but not available.

He's sweetly whispering,
constantly,
and I can only ignore for
so long

only sleep for
so many hours
until my empty belly
wakes me

and I can only fill it
when I'm
on my knees.

imagining what you look like in person

Sometimes I see a stranger,
in the coffee shop, or in the
grocery store, and I think
that is what you must look like

in person-scuffy, hard-working,
big leathery hands,
jeans and boots, a hat of some sort.

I wish I knew, and pictures
of you show only the eyes,

but the eyes are alive, clear blue
and I see you in them, the you
I used to know, when we would

drink underage,
hold hands in the backseat,
kiss on the couch,

listen to the Cult,
me driving that silver Sentra

and I see you now, the you
I am beginning to know,
the Godly, grown up,
still struggling you

the you that said you want to
grow with me, and if we can,
it will be so good.

I will wait to hold you, and
for now, that's fine.
I still have your eyes.

when we run

we are going towards Light
and not towards each other
but
parallel

you know things I am only learning
you run with me anyway

she said, "when you see someone
running next to you, then you'll know"

and as we run
the Light gets stronger
we bend to It

It wraps around us
vines around our fragile
fearful
hearts

fruitful, blooming,
branching to Light

When the dog barks in her sleep it makes me think of you.

I can't divide the pillow into
any more sections now.

There are only so many soft parts,
and it feels like I've got something
extra attached to my throat already.

I am wading through soggy fields
waiting for a sign.

The wet ground makes me angry
sometimes, cause it's cold.

I can't sleep like that.
I don't want to wake up to nothing.

When the moon falls out of the sky
I will see something
in the darkness I never knew.

It will have a name like Isaiah.
One I can roll around in my mouth.

I won't have to look at you when I
brush my teeth in the morning.

I won't have to whisper your name
at night.

I will have my own name.

while the cookies bake

when the floor isn't hard anymore,
and when it's difficult to get up
you dance in between my legs

I tell you I don't need any lessons
on how to do these things
I know which toes to paint

and how to hold your head up
just like your mommy did
when you were a little baby

the fan in the window hums
we stomp to the music
then lie on our backs

on the cold hard floor
which isn't cold or hard anymore
and you tell me you won't

eat raw cookie dough
cause you might get salmonella
and I tell you

that's the risk we take sometimes
to enjoy this life
and you drink another glass

and have already forgotten what I said

If I could,

I'd write a letter to you
with my feet that says,

"I wrote this with my feet,
because my hands aren't good enough
for you."

but then again, neither are my feet.


OR

If I could,
I'd write a letter to you
with my feet that says,

"I wrote this with my feet
because my hands are too good
for you."

but then again, so are my feet.

to Rufus

When I listen to you
I taste it--hard,
like dessert on the sidewalk:

bananas foster,
homemade pancakes,
tortilla recipe on tattered paper
in the new grass.

There's your lips,
and your face is soft
like a violin song.

When the dandelion grows
easily through the cracks,

it's a sweet reminder
that there are some things
we can never leave behind.