Sometimes,
I miss you with such ferocious intensity
that I start to wonder if it's you I actually miss.
Perhaps, it's simply the idea of you,
or how my puzzle shelf seems to now be missing a piece.

You asked me how it was possible
for two people to be able to share such depth
and such shallow waters together.
I wasn't sure how to tell you how deep those waters went.

It's like your black, your notes, the vision of sheet music moving
once the player gives life to the sound. It's how sometimes,
you feel certain. Others, you feel a million rays of doubt and trouble
and construct that weren't made by your hands.

It's when you can't fall asleep because you're hacking up a lung,
and when John Green makes you want to cry and throw the book and pick it up and whisper
IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou.
I still haven't figured out if I'm talking to him, the book, or you. Or me.

It's when I wish you were in my bed, just so I could lean over and kiss your forehead,
with the light still on and your snores filling the room.
I'd probably take that back once your chainsaw uvula nasal passages filled the room,
but as for right now, my starfish doesn't quite tuck so neatly.

Unpacking
is a daunting task.
Take clothes, for instance.
Every slice of fabric has rubbed you raw,
taking skin cells and hair cells and a facet
of the person who you used to be.
You (and he and they and we) are layered between strings.

You are intricate.
Tracing neurotransmissions down your spinal column,
from freckle to L4,
turning slow motor momentum.
It's my weighted moment,
my wordplay peachfuzz.

Silence, silencio, silent night,
simple sectors seething softly,
like a whistling tea kettle with
mutational falsetto (puberphonia).

Words are flowing,
just tripping their way around my e lin- sheath.
If I had to guess,
I would assume that neurochemical firings occur to the beat of softspoken dubstep.

Sometimes when I come (home),
I want to make a found poem out of
all the memories I never had
/(have yet to create).

It's all those words that I wanted to apply,
like "free" and "full" and "release"
and "unencumbered ventriloquist" and
"owls".
Just for the sake of sinking my teeth
into someone else's dictionary, vocabulary
(early morning rituals.
Perhaps I can slink into someone else,
if I adopt their lexicon,
and prepare my coffee the same way).

What are you spewing into the atmosphere?
What are you defining,
bringing into breath based on your action and reaction?

I could feel my hands
(plucking, grasping, *******, tearing)
your letters and phonemes and characters and verbal intent.
They're still on my pillowcase, I just don't know if you want them back.
I left mine buried in your red hot chili peppers lights,
you can keep them.

We have so many different endings.

I was never any good at saying goodnight
or goodbye for that matter
My hands are clenching this mug,
willing it to keep me awake.

My night won't end,
and I promise I'll figure out who I am,
if I can only stay up for 15 more minutes.
Witching hour, 12:34 syndrome,
what's behind the curtain of conscious number 3?

I'd spend my whole life hiding my heart away,
if I knew it wouldn't burn whenever I thought about
you dropping me off at the train station,
skyscrapers and kissed foreheads.
Every single time, it just sounds more honest
when Brandi says it.

They say you can read tea leaves.
I'd rather ground my fist into coffee
and see what truth lies underneath the soil.

When I say, do you feel me?
I'm not meaning in a literal sense.
Get your hands off of my mindset.

My pores are ******* you in.
I'm noticing this tone, through all my words, and warps and pieces,
it's like wordplay but less fun and more caustic.

My peach tree, shaken, branches splayed
(I really like your peaches won't you shake my tree?)
Peach, just a small variation away from bleach,
which is a variation of blech,
which is what is often going through my mind when I think of ways to respond to you.

My sparkling diamond of a
(kitchen floor)
soul, scrubbed red raw,
sometimesIwishIdidn'tchangeasmuch
asIpretendIhave,orrecogniz­ethatIhaven't,really.

I want to eat crack
(s in the linoleum)
all day, on my patio, and be surrounded by good vibes.
Vibesvibesvibes.

My ache is raw,
like an egg freshly cracked,
or the red meat on the counter.
Your flesh (my meat),
my red gaping open string of words and saliva.

This had every intention of being a light, swifty thing.
Furiously twittering (twitter wickedly),
my mind isn't always this dark I promise.
I promise a million things, but I'm still trying to understand myself.
Understand myself, oversit yoursociety.

Why do you take your pictures with your open mouth?
You are drooling all over my lens.