…you can use words if you wish, but I’m warning you – I’ve learned how to read your heart …

…art is weaker than life – in the end I have a bag of letters to scrabble into order – rune tiles to cast my fate…

…my novels are like life – I never know where they’re going until I get to the end…

…you want the sweetness of our beginning without the bitterness of our struggle – what are you asking – do you want light without shadow? …

…I always thought youth were idealists – now, I’m not so sure – I’m more idealistic now then at 17…

…we have entertained ourselves with the pornography of violence and inflamed passions that might otherwise have slumbered…

…today there are bars of light on the rug, but Muse Cat prefers his tomato box where he can dream in private…

…winter crescent resting in the high pine bough – you fly through the woods like a lone snow bird…

…Neruda was right about all mysterious women – The moon lives in the lining of their skin…

A heart never breaks in the same pattern of pieces

…don’t you realize a flawless profile means nothing when a mere smile drives me to desperation? Don’t you covet that power?..

…if you always move in certainty, your writing will be flat – creativity is a rugged terrain…

you are the mysterious fire at my finger tips

…the feelings that pass between us are deeper than fleshly touches…

our hearts break, and take us out of relationships that are too painful for us

…you found me in my lonely labyrinth and like Beatrice, led me out of my own hell…

…you knew I was confused, tormented, but you enticed me – led me on…

…I’m a modern mountebank – I believe in Physiognomy – after all, we are in control of our face – it’s the map of where we’ve been…

…I looked in the window, wanting to stay – it rained, yet I remained…because you were so lovely…

…careful the morning lest it wake from slumber the city half-encumbered by the morning mist …

…some people won’t even own a dog for fear it will die – you can’t bubble-wrap your heart…

…in my dream the shadings of your soul are the dark tincture of rain…

…we use intimacy to refer to the physical when it really pertains to the spiritual ..

…it’s always somebody’s fault – I blame you for my helpless love – do you think I chose this? Your beauty compelled me…

…we live in the same city but don’t see the same things – you see buildings and I see memories…

Your steady rain of words soaked me to the skin

…I can’t grasp the stars, but I love them – in the same way, I love you…

…I’ve marked our sacred place not with stones – I’ve put it my art to keep it safe…

…did you know that in your eyes there are bright flecks of green and orange – and that they are lovely?…

…I guess you’re right – I am a priest – I offer sacrifices – so take this line, I want you to have something of mine…

…you have changed everything for me- you rearranged the furniture and now you’ve changed the view from my window!…

…my heart rides the wind and my thoughts sail away – to a land below the horizon where I know you hide from me…

…when you’re hard and unyielding your words score me with lines – I hate lines – I want curves – curves are happy like a snowman …

…you fantasize about me reading my poems to you – it doesn’t work that way – I write down everything later – living is not an after-thought…

…I will find once again the light of your beauty – your colored windows in the night…

… this longing inside me that never goes away, must be a poem…must be you …

you know the way of the wind in the night—the desolate alleys my soul takes

…you can’t be intimate unless you’re sensitive…

…I live with regrets – the bittersweet loss of innocence – the red track of the moon upon the lake – the inability to return and do it again…

…the secret to writing is to get your own pain – shout it out till it hurts your throat – weep it into your pillow – then write it down …

my soul has shadows – nooks and crannies where griefs, like cobwebs, collect

…so now you know my eyes are green – because of my shirt? You never looked into my soul to know how much in me is green…

…you are my Lady of Shalott lost in a dream of isolation – I care too much for you – I romanticize depression…

I will not exorcise you—I’d miss your fragrance, the soft tread of your step on the stair

…you want things to remain the same, which they never can, and so you’re wounded by your own feelings & resentful others don’t seem to care…

I write small poems— the kind that fit on a postcard… and still can break your heart

I see you from afar—fragile and shy as a star gleaming through a cloudy rift

…freedom of conscience does not mean being uncontrolled – we have to control ourselves and at times submit to others…

…the bones of cirrus clouds stand out like ribs against the sky – an angel is stretching…

…I love Shakespeare, but sometimes….his images – If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head….