I wonder why
I write love poems to strangers.
To concepts.
To moments.
I wonder why I feel so strongly for things
I can't possibly know.
I wonder if writing love poems to strangers
Hurts them
Or celebrates them.

i wonder if the doors in the house you grew up in
started slamming themselves to save your father the trouble.
i wonder if you can remember the last time you prayed,
and if you had trouble unfolding your hands.
i wonder if your mother knows
about the collection of hearts you hide in your closet,
i wonder if she could tell mine apart from the rest.
i wonder if your shoes know the reason why
you keep them by the back door and not your bedside.
and sometimes, i wonder
if you ever think about that night when i told you,
you wouldn't need to drink so much if you had me.
but it seems like we only speak when you've got body on your brain,
whiskey in your glass,
your judgement is overcast,
and you know i'm too weak to ignore you.
i learned how to translate your texts
from drunken mess back into english.
i am fluent in apology, but i don't ask you for them anymore.
this is just how it is.
it's not enough for either of us
but ******* it we are not above settling.
so i will ignore her name on your breath,
and you will ignore the fact that this means something to me.
i always thought the first time i kissed you,
it would be on your mouth.
i just wanted to be something warm for you to sink into,
something that could convince you to stay a second night.
but i sneak you out in the early morning,
and you take a piece of my pride with you when you go.
i am left to nurse the hangover from a wine i've never tasted,
wondering how this is possible.
waiting for the next drunk call,
for the next time i get to pretend we are lovers,
the next time i get to live out the fantasy i am most ashamed of.
it is the one in my head where you want me when you're sober too.

- m.f.

She likes fashion and interviews. I like getting lost.
Sometimes she grabs my bulge,
as she drinks from an aluminum flask.
She told me to rhyme something with 'flask'.
I said, "Fine. In your life, you've been wearing a mask.
But I can see. And you can see. They can't see.
That you are a detached, blond doll
and your back is against the wall,
as I kiss your neck until you're dead."
She said to rhyme something with 'dead'.
I said, "Fine. You ******* in my head.
And it's quarrelsome
that they don't see that you're numb.
I'd pull on your lip, with my teeth.
Dig my hand between your legs.
Just to make you feel. Just to make you feel.
And I study your hairbrush
to see that there are too much
strands of memories from melodies
that lay dormant in ballrooms
and scented kisses
that drip of the misses
in your life and mine."
She said **** me with your words.
I refused because I'd rather watch her bloom
in my dreams than the seams of
a fiber noose that rings loose
the bell in your neck
that sounds until birds fly
and we die-
You look at me,
"Home."

Your message has been received, darling.
Your pain has been felt.
But you can retaliate all you want
And all it will prove
Is that you loved me.

i hope my shadow follows you through the rooms of your house
i hope my perfume lingers in your bedsheets and my naked body lingers in your mind
i hope that when you look at your backyard, that all you can see is the red hammock that we broke
and we laughed and laughed
i hope you sit in your living room and remember when i counted the fourteen fake candles. i hope you count them and find fourteen and remember when we kissed on the floor
i hope that blonde hairs litter your possessions. i hope that you find them on your clothes, in your car, in your room, for months after i've left
i don't want to be so easy to get rid of.
i hope my voice has stained all your family photos so that all you can see when you look at them is how cute i thought you were
i hope that the sight of your empty passenger seat physically pains you and i hope that every day you feel as if something important is missing
and i hope that that something important is me  
i hope your lips burn bitter with my aftertaste and your hands grow lonely just like your friday nights without me

i want you to miss me
even if you won't

Hey Eddie,
       where are you tonight? I'm outside and my body aches. My feet are frozen too. Do you hate my cigarettes? I'm sorry I'm weak sometimes but I think you understand. I still haven't felt you, maybe once on the hill, but I live in Long Beach now. Not close to the hill or your home or our streets. Crazy huh? It's a long way from where I thought we'd end up. Do you remember how much you liked sushi? I had some today. It tasted like the river and the rope swing. I wonder if you would recognize me. I'm a mess Ed, a mess. I'm posting this on some website in hopes that it finds its way to you. I'll write it down too, then burn it over a mountain so the ashes might meet with yours. I don't know. I'm tired, so tired. Hey Eddie, where are you tonight?

Girls are from Venus and boys,
from Mars - we are strategically apart though we are both
made of stars. There are 6 other parts
to our solar system listed if you listen in class. People are not transparent
glass, we are not to be seen through and reduced
to white or black or skinny or fat or boys or girls. There are 6 other planets,
ten trillion undiscovered worlds
of grey. It is okay
to be something else, you are still

something else.