You can see my Reflections & Clothes photos on Behance. Below are a few samples.
The lover of all months.
When skin changes from cantaloupe to apricot,
Eyes become inviting and spicy,
And hair shines like jam-spread amber.
Giggling and stolen glances turn the waves on
As the breeze freezes fragile moments into a civil state of blush.
Sandsteps follow each other in a dance privately known as
The Honey Quicksand of Old Walnuts and Uneasy Hopes.
The only rhythm you can dance it on is the sigh.
As for the echo, it`s the resemblance of the
Neverending lament of corals being
Crushed to dust by the aegean waves of body tremble.
Opening your eyes the right way
Must be the hardest skill
You can (never) master.
You never know what`s awaiting you
On the other side of the eyelid.
Theory doesn’t really help.
Practice is scary.
Still, it`s never too late to
Try and open your eyes one more time.
The most important thing in your life
Might remain a ghost
Forever right before your eyes…
In another world,
We`d be cuddling by the campfire,
Just the two of us there somewhere,
Telling each other stories of
How foolish we were as kids
How fun it was not being an adult,
Fine konyak aiding the tongue.
When there’d be rain,
We`d stay out and get wet
For the fun of not caring
And the romance of a stolen kiss
Under the umbrella of an old tree.
We’d then get back into our camper,
All smiley and giggling, all wet,
And just sit in there on the small sofa,
Listening to the rain on the roof,
Watching it paint pictures on the windows,
A painter not for sale,
Our very own Turner or Monet
Interpreting the nowness of our world
Into a motion picture of our shared presence.
Thus would be our simple life
In another world,
Where I met you and fell in love,
And then you followed,
Slow but steady as the rising sun,
And nothing held us back,
Gods just gave us what they had
And left us there,
Some very special somewhere,
To light a fire of our own.
Hang in there,
It`s not your time
To let go.
Maybe you’ll make it
A minute longer,
Or you may not make it
Just hang in there.
You try to keep that grip
Until you really know
You have to let go.
Then struggle a bit more.
Hang in there.
In these very last seconds,
In your last shower of sweat,
In the impossible screams,
You’ll meet your savior.
He`ll either lift you up
Or let you go down
In peace with yourself.
But you have to struggle,
Or you’ll be falling,
It`s not about where you fall.
It`s about how you choose to.
And you may not fall at all.
Summer is the season
When I know
You can rock your short jeans
And leave your footsteps
In the moonway sand,
And I can just follow them,
One feet more at a time,
Catching up with
The divine smell of you hickory hair
And your sandcastle skin
I can touch on and on.
On and on.
It`s all time.
Lit by the candle light
Of the stardust we share
Like a billion sparks
In a huge midnight fire.
Precious like burning jewels,
Priceless like how funny it is
Throwing them in
Cause we know nothing beats time
When it comes down to counting
The moments in life
You can steal for yourself
And share if you wish
With one other`s self.
The whole sky is our fanfare.
It gave us the roar of its audience
And the flash of its nightlights.
No one noticed we survived so far
In our enigmatic dance,
Me like a tree in the wind,
You like the wind round a tree.
The funny and the gracious.
The rooted and the free.
You rock your short jeans so well.
The sand becomes softer for your feet.
The air becomes lighter for your moves.
The night becomes quiet for your breaths.
I am all here.
One feet more at a time.
I`m a cigarette
Left for someone else to smoke.
In the cold, dark night of the lonesome,
I`m smoldering on the window ledge
Of an old widower who lost his better half
Too early, too soon,
Right in his 30s when he was still figuring out
The real point in human existence
And why we differ at all,
Yet not able to grasp his own nature
Or even dissolve a single day to a single word.
In the better days,
His wife would emphasize him,
Just as he brought her to a better existence,
Though he often forgot the simple in life
And brought up complexity
To his otherwise simple mind.
And his wife`s scent was why he had a nose,
And her body was why he had eyes,
And her self was why he had a soul.
Still, he often spent his time beyond,
Focusing on the everything and nothing,
Messing up his head with parallaxes
And his heart with the deepest trenches.
And I’m still looking for another smoker,
Though I know I needed no better smoker than mine.