I Know This Part

I know this part. 
He flies away. 
But I’ll see him 
Again someday. 
I don’t know when. 
I don’t know where. 
But somehow he 
Will find me there. 
He’ll swoop back in 
To grab my heart 
And hold it close. 

I know this part. 
I let him go 
To find a world 
I’ll never know. 
To walk among 
The beasts and kings, 
Where magic rolls 
And battle rings. 
He wanders long. 
It is his art. 
He can’t stay here. 

I know this part. 
He’ll bring to me 
A tale or two, 
A memory 
Of blood and death, 
Of love and pain, 
Of finding hope 
Where shadows reign. 
And when he does 
He’ll lift my heart 
And hold it close. 

I know this part. 
For when he’s gone 
My love for him 
Burns ever strong. 
He fills my dreams. 
He fills my sky. 
He’s everywhere. 
I never try 
To hold him back. 
It’d be too dark. 
I can’t do that. 

I know this part.

Missing Something

And i expect myself to let me sleep 
while all-around explodes inside 
the empty horrors eating away 
an endless curtain of pain 

Haunting apathetic strides 
destroy the wonder of loneliness, 
and somehow i am left alone 
thinking only of you.


No one is here to think about
The sound it takes to make a couch,
The thrumming of needled machines
Stitching a quick and low thread count.

Upholstery is mostly strings,
All tied together tight and neat,
From colors changing suddenly
In some confusing, humming scene.

The fabric doesn’t know the pit
Of chopped up foam in fluffy bits
That mingle in their flowing ways,
Pushed into pillows ’til they fit.

The cushion covers hear the way
The vacuum pressure takes the stage
To make an unsuspecting square
Shrink down for slipping over there.

And you won’t hear a wooden frame
Flinch or quietly complain
About the staple’s stinging wails
When shot from guns with coiled tails.

The buttons have the worst of it,
Smothered with layers where they sit,
Then pressed between heavy machines
That bend and lock shapes as they click.

When everything is said and done,
The zipping, stitching, stinging hum,
The stuffing, shrinking, tucked and wrapped,
The creased and pleated patterns match.

The screwy squat feet bear the weight,
And everything looks plush and great.
No one thinks about those sounds
When all we see’s a perfect couch.