in a society where we are not allowed to speak to one another;
how does one know if they are being seen or truly heard?

the words spill out as letters on a blue-light screen,
bright enough to make me see;
but am i understanding the depth of the people around me?

Paint your ink all over me
We’ll see how things go eventually
But I think I’m drawn to the way you breathe
To the way you see me

Pick me up like your paintbrush
Like a habit you’ve had though we just met last month
Now all I’m thinking ‘bout is us

We’ll get lost in conversation
The world’s so hurt but maybe we could change it
You know I’m drawn to the way you think
To the way we dream

Pick me up like your paintbrush
You know just how to hold me with the softest touch
And still make me feel so much

come here. i’ll wrap myself around you
most of the time i’m sure i’m a sliding glass door
obvious like a schoolgirl crush
never able to hide the pink in my cheeks
or bury the truth behind enough broken parables
i’m about as vigilant as a chihuahua
perched on top of a sofa barking at the mailman
forgetting for a moment that you could pick me up
and put me down on the floor but
i promise i’ll just jump back up again
never fully accepting the plainness of my bluff
the winters crack my knuckles but
i don’t want to buy another pair of gloves
i’ve got ripped fingernails turned ******
and a kitchen sink full of unwashed mugs
and you’re pulling my hands away from my face
trying to show me how much we look the same

have you ever held the sun in your hands
sometimes i carry it around in my pockets and forget it’s there
sometimes i feel so full of it that i believe in god again
what else is there besides
the streams of light peeking through magnolia leaves
who am i to the baseball shirt
to the blazer or the black fishnets or the crooked bottom teeth
it doesn’t matter
i smell lemon verbena laundry detergent and it’s like time travel
i’m in our west hollywood apartment again falling asleep on my right hip
sometimes i am forty-two but i am always fourteen
do you see me on the page or in the sidewalk cracks
i wish i didn’t care but i always do
where does it come from
the longing
the need to be loved by the things that we love
i hear a song or read a poem and i’m on my knees
i hate being looked at but
i’d do anything for you to see me

there are millions of people that I have seen for the last time... but how many of them actually saw me?

After a while, the sweet kisses you once left on my body, turned into scars, of your memory.

The once, beautifully simple moments we lived out together, are now beautifully tragic.

The bass of the music that blared through your speakers, the same blunt force is felt on the pieces of me that you touched.

your love is like a merry go round, and you left my wheels spinning.

there are those who live to see
and those who live to be seen

myself, i'd like to know
so I can placate my perils
of indirection and indignation.
to douse the flame of uncertainty
and quench this abysmal curiosity.

when the day ends,
I don't know
whether I see or am seen

my faith will falter
my ache won't alter
the afflicted anger
Still hoping it will waver.