This is not for you, this is not even for me. None of this belongs to this us we all claim to be, to this us we all claim to want to become. But somehow the light of day and dark of morning all seem to fit somewhere, somewhere in all of this. I don't know who this us is and will be, but I can feel all that it will become. Within every glare of the suns rays and every pulse of the moons light I know why the wind does what it does with petals and leaves and hair and skin. Just for a taste of me for you, you for me and us for all. For all. For all.
-AL

Day into night and day into night again for as long as this here feeling or lack thereof exists, I scribble love notes into the fibers of every letter engraved into this keyboard, repetitively, in search for something
To form a phrase of some meaning, or of placement, like structure 
Like form and position 
And it seems that every silent sound that is of black ink is scented with the echoes of something we will never be but could, if I just keep etching possibility in between the spaces of every word of tongue 
Still awake among the still of night there is something of a soft whisper rustling through the breeze as leaves sway under bare moonlight, and I keep searching for you in these bedsheets but you are nowhere to be found 
You only exist within the multitude of tiny threads which consist of letters and syllables and sentences and punctuation marks
The ones I constantly weave day in and day out, from sun up til sun down 
I keep writing to hopefully feel you completely, as some sort of fabric, as cotton, or wool, or something far off
Some far gone piece of me or you or us 
Something that never was
-AL

Among the light of what we could become now, you are every feathered feeling, every gentle caress ever needed 
Within the dark of what has become of this us you are every rushed breath, every grip of a sheet and flesh, and every whisper through and out of 
We together are both damnation and salvation within every sin of touch, and every blessing of voice 
We are sacred hymns only to be sang through fingertips, make this so heartfelt  the angels up above touch solid ground just for us 
Do not go to confessional but repent within the space between these lips 
Rebuke all that we have done because we could 
And only he who rests overhead knows that this is not the love we think we have 
-Ashanti Lee

We've met before, in between the swift breeze while the moon sits on the stoop and watches us hold hands 
Where the tulips blow in the wind we stood somewhere in the grass, embraced 
Inside of a coffeeshop among the dim of light we found eachother in coffee beans-- Aromatic 
Alongside a breath we became something of an exhale, a cloud only seen and untouched
We've met before but you're only as close as the night sky is 
Can't you feel all that could become of us?

My words will brand everything that you are. 
-AL

I want you to feel any and everything, and nothing at all. 
-AL

If aggression is at the heart of creativity then I don't apologize for the way these words slowly peel back every layer of skin and leave you aching. Exposed. I don't apologize for the way that each letter in its own just happens to set you ablaze. Not for every syllable, roll of the tongue and accent of voice that is the very candle I will gladly light in the presence of what you are not. That this flame of a candle is the one I want to watch struggle in the wind. I don't apologize for the way that everything that is right now and later on has its own sharp tongue. Of mine and not at all. But I do apologize in advance for the way you will be obliterated into exactly what you are. Pieces.