Running Therapy.

Running softly, over black and white keys
spill my rhythm, my beat,
pouring out of the me on my sleeve
spattering like ink on the ivory,
like oil on ebony,
swiftly, deftly.
I'm attached to the keys
the vapor from my fingers printing my melody,
I can hear it if I close my eyes, if I silence my sight
my mind surrenders to my body: raw, physical emotion.
And an escape. my thoughts, my fears
escape my fingers... my lips pursued but not a sound
like electric my fingers command the keys
spilling their poison, their hate, their frustration
for things I cannot control
and when it stops, I know I've made
beautiful music.

Listen

Listen to the drops, heavier than the dew
longer than a drip from
the faucet I left on at half past seven
and softer than the tears I shed
in sadness... then rejoicing
Listen to their patterns, each a
different pitch, a different touch.
Some too eager, but never too much.
Listen to the rain paining the glass
striping in time of a water's march
Listen to it hum, to it fall, to it sing
Listen to it expand as it lands
offering life to the pavement the near garden
spilling like my thoughts, like my words on this page
Listen, and imagine
a flood.

I hear jazz,
the jazz of the tide
the jazz of your eyes
the jazz of your heart
keeping time with mine
and it's blue.

I see jazz,
the jazz of the sky
at midnight and midday
the jazz of the passion behind your blue eyes
and it's blue.

I feel jazz,
the jazz of your touch
as our fingers dance across skin
the jazz of your lips
everytime you move in
and it's blue.

And it's blue.

The blue that I feel, and I see, and I hear
The blue that dissolves my irresolute tear
The blue that keeps crashing in and rolling away.
The blue that paints your eyes when you say...
You're beautiful... in blue.
And I can't get back to why I can't feel or see or say
The jazz that is you, in blue.
When I'm without you.
you're the jazz.
You're the blue.

painting.

What if I painted a picture of you
in blue
Strokes moody with each lift.
Deep, vivid, lively you
in blue.
And your eyes melt into the foreground
Melted around the thickness, the richness of the stare
of the blue bleeding, dripping onto the canvas.
What if I did?
If I were a painter, and your heart my portrait, blank
until I could fill it with blue
and lather it in thick layers
of rich creamy, forgiving paste
gluing my stare to yours,
my love to yours,
my peace to yours,
in blue.
What if I did?