Morning Mist

Promise not to laugh until we get home.

I have a word or two to say and I couldn’t stand to see them fall apart.

Please promise not to show a sign of feeling until we depart,

then this all can dissolve into the morning mist,

fading into the fog with all the visions and dreams of this car getting anywhere.


Remember not to breathe or utter a sound.

I’ve spent nights dating my mirror to figure out the right words,

practicing the exact pacing and the precise presentation,

dissecting every line down to the letter and worrying about missing the dots and crosses,

because I think you’ll see through my many little imperfections.


But when I look into your eyes my heart races,

jumping up and down in the caverns of my chest, playing jump-rope with my happiness,

toying my mind with pictures of hand-holding and a passionate kiss,

all of it theatrically staged under a canvas of moonlight and burning stars.

Those words I practiced so diligently become jumbled and scattered in my daze.


What I’m left with is a series of convoluted thoughts only I can read,

like my brain’s handwriting is nothing but a child’s unrestrained scribblings.

As I hand these broken and confused words to you, please don’t laugh until we get home.

And if it’s not to be I can dissolve into the morning mist,

and this can just be one of those things that will forever go unspoken.

( ❤ Mitch)

Ray Fiennes is Good at Being Angry, But I’m Not

Give me your eyes,

and I’ll hold them in my mind.

These brief glances of innocence I keep as treasures.

The smiles you give and the moves that you make endure,

constantly replaying in the caverns of my heart.


Every beat sings your name no matter what I do to block it.

I’d love to stop loving,

but whenever you enter my space, chills shock my senses.

The notes you play make my pulse race,

though on your end of the line, we move together rather formal.

Each and every interaction comes to you as normal.


The view I see you in will never be shared so long as the scales are unbalanced.

I try to realize you will never love me.

I try to recognize the signs that are all too clear to me,

holding too tightly to normal nothings that feel like everything.


In place of rational thought, I throw letters together as footprints,

hoping you might follow; you might be willing to be buried in the grains.

You and I can carry this baggage and drown with it or swim to shelter.

We can call this corner of the Earth our home, reserved only for us.


If this essay of mine has no substance to find, proceed.

It was nice to know the you that I dreamed of,

and it’s a harsh truth to know I won’t meet her.

There’s so much distance now but so much feeling.

I sit here in Bruges awaiting your final passing phrase.

Please let your shot miss.

You’re too far away.

( ❤ Mitch)

Snow Falling on November 11th

The smoke is clearing away from your front porch.

That door I’ve never seen before probably looks exactly like all the others,

but it’s the pathway to an unknown fate that beckons every day.


I’m stripped in an open field waving a white flag, defenses lowered:

The war has found an end.

The war is coming to a close.


Your lips crave for a holiday,

but your eyes remind mine of the tricks I play;

pretending I’m more whole than the inside displays.

Still I knocked gently on your heart’s door,

caressing the glass contents that shuddered at any shake,

quivered in a cold wind blowing by,

and slid to a covert cabinet when a stranger reached in.


Even with history in my stride I recited my best behavior,

yet froze in the chill emitted from an arctic smile.

Trying to start a fire while drifting underwater;

matches soaking wet, but it’s not much farther

until the caps melt off and the core speaks beneath.


Why do I have to sing whenever you look at me?

Why does every hair stand at attention whenever you’re near me?

A beating attraction proves flexible when sense is throwing obstacles,

willing to bend to nothing for the hope it transitions to love.

Hoping for a glacier to thaw in a frigid winter.


Last night I put my heart to rest and found you at your best,

dressed in the natural beauty of your smooth skin and hair.

It was as if you knew the surrender was always an inevitable.


Counting casualties on the battlefield,

praying that I’m on the winning side,

keeping those lingering doubts deep beneath the rising tide,

leaving space inside so every moment we get I’ll forever keep,

even when I know it means nothing to you or me.


But those little nothings are as alive as any love,

whether true or not; there’s no difference to me.

Even when the night ended and we left without a word,

the numbers fell in my favor.

That’s the story I’ll tell the mothers at home—

the ones breaking through my telephone lines.


We threw it all at a brick wall and watched it break,

only to pass on taking the blame.

The boys won’t be going home.

The boys won’t be going home.


I took a chance and two and by week’s end I’ll take three.

There’s no stopping joyful insanity.

The boys won’t be going home.

The boys won’t be going home.


I’ll keep the white flag up at night,

above the trenches,

high above our fears,

with the vague hope that one day you’ll emerge from you nest.

I’ll keep going until you relent.

There’s no way you’ll fall out of my head.

( ❤ Mitch)

You Can Call it a Monet

If we met back when we were kids, how much of this would have been reversed?

How much of anything could have been changed instead of living in stasis?

If I keep guessing with these “what-if’s,” will it change your mind?


Take your time: waiting is a game we play for all our lives.

I’ll spend my freedom on some empty words and self-assurance,

arm-in-arm with my brothers-and-sisters in arms:

Lovingly twisting each and bending until we break.


There’s no telling when the tension is going to flow over.

We’re trying to push the envelope until we tear it to pieces.

I’ll wait and circle around like a shark;

my esteem is low enough as the ocean floor.


Every moment I’m hoping you’ll be back for more:

Think of the nights nestled in cloth with a vinyl disc spinning lazily,

our hands intertwined, spun in silk so delicately.

Think of the days in the sun with songs erupting from our hearts

and the rays of color refracting from the sky between our eyes.


And if you think of any more, will it become real enough for me touch?

Or can I just think of it myself and cover for you?


I’ll trick myself into thinking it’s not my loss to count

during all those times together with our brothers-and-sisters in arms,

closer and closer every day as we cope and laugh at our words,

bringing our smiles so close but our hearts at a distance.


It’s the impressions that matter the most to me;

the seconds of love that pass too quick to see.

I’m painting a photo of you and me for when we leave this scene.

I never really was, but what if I was?

What if anything I though was real?

What if I thought you loved me?


Nothing more has to be said; he’s calling for you again.

No more has to be said; I guess you can go home again.

( ❤ Mitch)