I know I'm reading into things and creating an improbable fantasy, but you are the most precious creature I've had the opportunity of meeting.

I enjoy you.

I don't dream of you and me, but I do desire the possibility and I wish I could tell you this in person with my own voice instead of cowering behind these flimsy phrases dressed in desperate and veiled stanzas: You move mountains when you smile;

the sun radiates a little brighter; the clouds fluff up a little higher; weeping hemlocks fan thrushes when you wink; and vireo's whistle in at you and wink.

You are poetry, and I am writing you down, so I can never forget the pure joy I feel when I make you smile.

Regards,
Anon

It is more than just a method. There is a science. Words have meaning. Useless words are not needed.

I use the words "smile" "nibble" "kiss" "affection" because of their sound and their meaning. There are no other words that fit. Some words are merely approximate.

The next collection "For Anon" -- Always left Outside ... is now a retired title.

"For Anon," will be my opus. Anything that comes afterwards will be a facsimile of a cliché. Everyone (can) relate\s.

"Walk Lightly" is an introduction. "For Anon" is the theory. "The Hypocrite" (working title) is the philosophy.

d.james

You are the shy mistress
to the long winter,
and the head corner stone
you won't refuse
when it is time
to build your home

out of olive branches
and precious pomegranates
plucked from the secret garden

decorated in ceramic gnomes.

{It will be as it is in the end: )A tragedy:

Boy meets girl.
Girl flirts with boy.
Boy runs away.
Girl finds someone else to play.

(It is the romance to remark on in the long winter.)

She will grow up, and he may (or may not).
She will have lived her life, and he will be arrested at development.

(This is a story laced with hidden intentions.)

First came the rejection,

then the shock,

and the complete

and absolute

disbelief.

Then arrived the shame

followed by the guilt

and finally

the anger:

She was pissed,

and then disgusted.

But how to hurt him

and corrupt his head,

so he is thinking of her

(and suffering instead).

You are dreaming right now because you are expecting a phone call from a friend

and you're afraid

this may be the last phone call you'll receive from this friend and you're scared to let go.

You have desires.

You want to tell this friend you want them back in your life and it is causing you great discomfort.

You want to tell them that you dream of them and though the dream is a foreshadow for wishful thinking,

they remain in your thoughts

and you know living your life
and finding happiness on your own
will lead you to them
(or away).

It seems so terribly wrong -- the frenetic state you get in when you think of their absence -- and you beam with memories of their lips their eyes their ears drip like tears into your thoughts

and you're foolishly scared;
scared they're scared of time
and you're scared they've given up on time.

You feel like a deflated balloon right now,
sagging on a park bench under an old banyan tree
and the birds are chirping feverishly
and the wind is rubbing your shoulders
as the weeping willow is waving goodbye to the old moon.

How silly is it to wake up on a cool autumn night in a rain forest covered in a thick oily heat,
shaking (again)

because you are thinking again
while dreaming
and you didn’t like what you were thinking
because it was a dream without you
and them.

You're talking about waking up from a dream,
a dream where they are next to you and you are laughing
and you embrace
the scent on them
and the touch of them
and the vision of them
and the sound of them
and the taste of them.

And you start thinking and loudly debating

and then

doubting

followed by remorse and sorrow

because you notice the little things aren't so little anymore

and you feel like you're sleeping

and you begin to understand why these moments are only pools of experiences and ponds of inferences

(so you can cope)

and you begin to grieve
because you realize that their thoughts aren’t beside you
and memories of them aren’t inside you
and that they are somewhere over there
and out there

but not here

next to you,

a realization that started slightly after you became sleepy,
and your mind deletes the details,

but you continue to dream like Nemo,
realizing this lucid dream ends

in (the) morning.

You likes me like an old ruddy sweater that you want to slip into,
enjoying the current of sheepish sleep.

The pulsing heat rubbing you over like a wet bed.