Water and Oil

I'm trying to plant roots into sinking soil

I'm trying to mix the yin and the yang of

water and oil.

I'm becoming closer to a recent need

to find the souls

I can still find in

a stranger's eye.

Why do I feel like I know them better

than you really know the me or you on

the inside?

Tuning into your channel

I've continually done and tried.

Heavy from pretending, pulling,

pushing, pampering your

faults and mistakes,

like water and oil

or as broken as

cracks in the pavement,

a bad scene replaying

in your production,

the focus it takes

to count

all the breaths in the room that were

mine,

the ones you suction and swallow,

you take.

At times you let go of me

and flock your feathers

back to a grimy, dusty nest

rooted in the perished limbs of

the punks and night crawlers of the past,

hanging in a dying tree.

A tree whose roots are too

perished to rescue from the quicksand

soil made from water and oil,

obliviously sinking you.

Crossing over pas·seg·gia·ta,

carry on,

there's sunshine

on the other side.

I already took dark walks into

your dream space.

I know

your every face and, no,

I had no fear, that's what love is;

being more than a stranger,

so why, is it that strange

to know

your earth, open you up,

dig into you,

peer inside.

I found opulent grounds

to grow new roots on the

other side.

There's room

here to stay, if you let me,

if you're here to make space

to stay too,

just decide.