I’ve been laying in bed naked all day listening to Andrew Bird while writing my book. I feel lazy, but I’m actually getting stuff done which is nice.

It’s an odd thing when you think about it. That you are so much like your father. So much like your mother, your friends… And so much like yourself. That 21 years ago you were born.

That once upon a time you wanted to be a soldier, fighting for something valorous and noble. That once upon a time you were a little boy, scared to sleep in the dark. Afraid to be alone. That once upon a time you stole one of your fathers porn magazines just to know what a woman looked like. That once upon a time you questioned your sexuality. That once upon a time you questioned your existence and whether it was worth remaining. That you had your first kiss, first class, first friend, first loss in this cruel world when you didn’t know it was so cruel. I remember thinking in 3rd grade that I’d never live past 16. That I’d never see graduation. I remember thinking that I would never make it to be old enough to go to college. But I always knew I’d get married. Have kids. And now im so different.

Here I am. So completely here. So deeply engaged in a life that I never could have dreamed. So ready for the next chapter, and so unsure of what it will hold.

I grew up without even realizing I have been constantly changing. I grew up oblivious to the fact that I was growing up.

I lost my mind somewhere in
between the
realms of sunset and sunrise
in between breaths, exhales;
the immeasurable span
between one star and another.
I lost my mind somewhere in
between the
cycles of the moon and the sun
in between old, new;
the dividing street between the
rough side of town and the clean.
I lost my mind somewhere in
between the
places of death and conception
between chalk outlines, thighs;
The misunderstood paths
between truth and lies.
I lost my mind somewhere in
between the
lapse from end to beginning
between illusion, reality;
the unknown space
between body and soul.

Snow is heavy falling from its height,
White as cocaine
Cold and thick as tequila
As it comes out of the icebox.

Have you ever caught a flake on your tongue?
It dissolves like acid
and you lie down
Imagining you’re an angel

And the man that it forms
Has eyes as black as tar
And smokes a pipe.
He’s crystallized and only
Stares forward smiling
With his lifeless countenance
Like most made of something
From a height.

You broke the darkest parts
Of my low kingdom
Like a desperado riding in
From the east.

Each ray a spear shattered
The silence; my serene existence
And awoke the birds deep
Down in the nest.

Warmth took hold
I was no longer in morning.
I was no longer in mourning.

We arrived full of wine to an empty street. The dark was defeated in the luminous glow of street lights reflecting off of the thick snow that fell delicately around us. Flakes of white were caught, a contrast, tangling into your dark hair. For all that seemed cold about the air, I was blissfully warm in the slightly exhausted exhales of the moment. Your eyes held the flames. Your eyes hold a substance I can never fully understand. Locked inside of your retinas, I swear, is the answer to life. The cure to worry. The key to love and the way into a deeper universe.

I reached out and took your hand, asking for a dance. We didn’t need music. Every snow flake sang a silence so deep and enriching that no device could achieve the perfect lack of sound.

You are my tigress. The huntress of the wooded regions held up in all dimensions of my mind. It was as if you had leapt from the tall weeds of my dreams and materialized in the street: brilliant, beautiful, perfect.

Elegantly, as if we were the king and queen of this empty tundra of a street, we spun and laughed. We sealed our rule with a kiss.

I fell swiftly, and completely in love with you. And for the first time in so long, the ice thawed deep inside of me. The heat of our joy melted through skin and bone to my true essence. I felt alive again. I became real… And my eternity became framed in this moment, beneath the heavy snow and glowing street lamps of an empty street in my heart.

Thick air fills black lungs
with white smoke;
an end in ashes

In dark rooms they burn red
with light flame
and fickle passions.

Heavy words fill blank pages
with black letters
from typewriters

Architects birth careful plans
with inked hands
and tired fingers

Bottles fill up mason jars
with red wine
for parched mouths

Midnight fills Parisian attics
with the Moon
in linen gown

Romance fills a writers mind
with madness, passion
and desire

Muse, O Love, O Moon at night
us architects
we do require.

Words will fill the pages
of our books
that explain life

Struggle will feed meaning
to the prose
that is our strife

Passion intertwined
with inspiration
fills our cups

And midnight in its richest form
will make us write
‘till dusk.              

Romanticism is not dead.  It is alive and breathing quite well, in fact.  We live in an age of romantic revival.  This generation is on the upswing of romanticism as a whole.  Or at least I am.  I long for the days of romantic gestures.  The beautiful nights of intoxication, the struggle to find food and make rent, the pains of love and the affairs that turn up around midnight when the night is yet young as we are.  I long for the melodies of the midnight nations choir.  The bar hopping, the parties, the true expanse of life all packed into a single space.  This is romanticism.  And the loneliness.  An empty, one bedroom apartment.  Just me, a typewriter,  and a bottle whiskey.  I long for the romance between us three.  We belong together.  I understand why artists live such troubled lives.  It is because these lives give us passion.  The hardships provide us with unique character.  Money drained, starving artists are the true romantics.  You don’t need to be in Paris to write.  But you do need to look at your surroundings as if you were.  Grand Rapids is my little Paris.  I will harvest the true essence from her.  I will claim her as my own Paris. 

                There is nothing sweeter than a city at night, in its black dress with street lamp jewelry.  There is nothing as refreshing as her breezy breath that flows through the empty streets.  There is not a thing like standing on her stretching bridges and feeling the surging energy come up from the river, her ever flowing soul, the true infinity of this city.

because I feel like getting lost with you.  And when we find the light, everything will make sense and I don’t know just what this dark means but it doesn’t matter.  None of it does or did.  I’m just content knowing that at least we’re not afraid of the dark anymore.  I’m just content being lost with you.  We might be two fiery stars separated by distance (it’s lonely, yeah) but let our flares be our hands.  Let our light be conversation.  Distance and time are only relative.  So let’s get lost wandering in the dark and when we find that light, we will understand everything.

I caught a vision of your face and eyes smiling wildly, uncontrolably, at the furious flurry of winter. You were illuminated by a passionate yellow glow. A forty watt beauty: luminous, personal, romantic. You are that light. That light is you, brightening up the over processed thoughts inside my cavernous brain. You provide just the right frequencies.