Flat pockmarked land compliments a cloudless sea of sky, which fades to white at the horizon. Broken in the middle by concrete, land still remains relentless, forever sprawling. But forever straight fades into rising and falling waves bringing with it the tree-marked land. And then the road floats and the land sits and grows. Through the transparent sometimes speckled glass children watch, but pulling out into cars, parents groan about time lost and families argue about where to stop and lovers smile and the radio fades to crackling and babies cry of lack of food and the trees reach, stretching towards clouds and children watch and feel the car bullet towards nebulous mountains at the end of the straight stretch of the never-ending concrete. Slowly towns coalesce from farm to house to town center to house to farm then fade into patch after patch of square land with broken middles filled with concrete. Arid air outside juxtaposes the warm that is only broken by an open window with a hand passing money to the toll. A bird floats above concrete and above skeleton trees blown out against new spring. Welcome to Pennsylvania.

Feeling how you feel after
eating just enough of the sunrise,
I kiss you and know it is forever.

The Moon cascades over mountain-tops and into the valleys below; hiding behind patch-barked trees and underneath waves of water within rivers flowing towards lonely towns, the Moon runs away from the Sun and the stars and the sky.

Rain drops drip, and like static, form an ambient audio in the hollow caves of my ears. Following paths to memories, the static drip-droping reforms moments and acts them out behind my eyes: I see you, again, with the diaphanous curtains throwing upon you an affected light, coalesced by window panes into a half-yellow shimmer. Your slender fingers, along with your palm support your head. Elbow resting upon my pillow, your head slowly sinks into your palm. Sunlight daybreaks into the room. Your eyes, until now small slits, become, for a moment nothing, and then break free of lids and become solely eyes beaming out your excitement at a new chance to live. In the mirror I spy your surprise, and amble over to your sprawled outline blown out against the patterned bedspread. The bed bends with my weight, and your elbow slips from the pillow, and your head falls to the cushy sheets, and we laugh. Slowly static builds and memories break free from acting out again moments past.

At the mention of
a period,
at the mention of
an end,
I unravel,
and my
strands of being
jump to the floor
and quickly all leave each other,
leaving me fit to fragment,
and float to the tippy-top of the
clouds in the sky,
where I can see our
entire lives etched out on the earth.
And from there I know: the
period is but a question mark
waiting to be answered. 
And really it is all a possibility because a
paragraph is not made up of
solely one sentence. 
There is always
a then,
and
a suddenly,
and
an after that.

I know that,
possibly,
our strands of being will intertwine,
forever.
And that the period is an ellipsis and a question mark,
but I don’t want to let punctuation dictate my life
because the clouds at the tippy-top give me a peek of the future
I know, from the view at top of that clouds, that…

You,
and me,
and us,
and everything that ever was,
and is,
and will be, lives
—singularly—
in mind of new born,
slowly awaking from the
abyss of nothingness
to
light of existence.

It is impossible
to sleep when you're
not around. 
I find it
hard to dream
without your presence. 
I inhale your exhale
and it fuels
images in my mind. 

But none of that is here
when you’re at your house. 

This is the miss in my missing. 

I want your dent in my mattress
when I wake from
dreams. 

I want to smell your
morning breath.
I want to see your
messed up hair. 
I want to feel your
unwashed skin. 
I want to hear your
snores as I awake up. 

And this is what I miss,
even though I’ve never had it. 

You say I can’t miss the future,
but I disagree,
because it will one day be the
past.

Saddam sways slowly.
A blurry, pixilated, contrasted camera-phone captures the movement.
Upload.
Violence sparked by broadband connections.

Saddam sways slowly.
A video camera pans with the body.
Broadcast.
Al Iraqiya inciting violence from its satellite dishes.

Saddam sways slowly;
whether for good or for bad,
a body forever immortalized.

Lips erode my being.
Bitterly seductive words touch my ear—
or is that her tongue?

Her spine feels like knots in a tree.
Our mouths meet in infinity.

Falling into that
bottomless pit between lust and love,
I smile.

Causing chaos we
— flirtatiously, impetuously—
with our eyes,
leap across the Grand Canyon and into the
in-between infinity.

Sinuously, with our hands,  
we mold castles from the air.
So, when hordes come crashing towards,
we can hide in what we have created.

Ardently smiling,
like  pink side-ways Cs painted across both our faces,
we kiss and Cs, become Os, become side ways 8s,
and our ever-increasing entropy effects us,
and makes us hold on tighter.
So hard [that] we lose our apostrophes and become a singular entity,
no longer attached to the S [at the end of our noun].

Averting chaos we kissed.