mezza☾una (dot) me

the rain 
has left itself in tiny pieces
everywhere;
on leaves
and blades of grass,
on the edges of petals
along this forgotten path,
and i’m careful
not to crush them
as i move deeper
into the woods.

— thedustdancestoo

once,
when i was young,
an old man told me
the moon was made of moths.
that’s why it rises, he said,
and falls,
and why
sometimes pieces disappear,
flying off
to pollinate the stars.

— thedustdancestoo

there’s always a starting point.
everything has one, even a day.
a moment
when the sun seperates
from the earth,
and returns to the stars.
there’s always a beginning,
a first breath,
a blossom,
a scream,
a look,
a touch,
a kiss.
a spark,
a point of orgin.
but what happens
when the sun decends
beneath the waves?
what happens
when we taste our last breath?
there’s always a beginning,
everything has one, even the end.

—thedustdancestoo

if only
i could wake up
dreaming.

—thedustdancestoo

the sun crashed
into the horizon,
throwing a million
pieces of light
into the darkness.

—thedustdancestoo

the heart, crinkled up on the carpet in front
of an empty trash can;
a poem 
she would never read,
a poem 
he would never give her.

—thedustdancestoo

he left
faint impressions
of fingertips
on her neck—
a kiss, stolen.

—thedustdancestoo

when the wine bottle’s empty
we’ll place a sunflower inside
and call it a vase.

—thedustdancestoo

burn
the maps, 
we don’t care.
adventure
is not found
in between 
the boundaries 
of cartography. 
it’s a discovery
by those young
and old 
with worn out soles,
who have bravely lost
themselves 
in the great act
of living passionately.

—thedustdancestoo

we can touch noses
if your mouth is too tired;
let’s be eskimos.

—thedustdancestoo

collapse into dreams
with me,
i want to see you
with my eyes
closed.

—thedustdancestoo