I knew a kid in highschool
Rather to say I knew him would be an overstatement,
He was a friend of a friend at most,
The boy that sat directly in front of me in my economics class
Second seat from the right, second to last from the back
The corner of the classroom between the whiteboard wall and the windows
I remember that scene like a diagram,
I couldn’t tell you anything I learned from the class but,

I knew a kid in highschool
He was best friends with my childhood best friend
He wasn’t quiet, wasn’t loud- he was a normal highschool boy
I remember the last words I said to him
Well not quite, I remember the vague idea
Something along the lines of it only gets worse
He was talking about the theoretic project where we role played
Each kid acting out as if they were in the real world
He said he was overwhelmed by the amount of work
I told him it only gets worse

I knew a kid in highschool
He killed himself during the weekend
The Monday they announced in I was sick
I was sick
His obituary isn’t up on the internet anymore
Neither is his facebook, he is nothing but a yearbook page
The page to a book I couldn’t afford
He is a memory on bookshelves filled with dust

I knew a kid in highschool but I had to ask a friend to confirm his existence
That I didn’t just make up a daydreamed suicide
I’m so tired of wondering what’s left of us when we die
I spend most of my life running from evidence of my existence
No photos, no yearbooks, nothing with me or my name
I knew a kid in highschool

He looked at her lower back
Expecting it
Any second now
She was wearing low rise jeans
It was bound to happen
What was she hiding?
He was about to find out
Bam! Jackpot!
Lace pink ones
Interesting, he thought
It was his first time he’s seen hers
Sometimes he would see some only once
Sometimes he would see some daily
That would be the only time he would see them
After all, she did wear them her way

He learned some things
And passed it on saying
“You can always learn a little bit
From what ******* she has on”

Freshman year, he’ll never forget
His first female friend he made
“She’s a ****” His friends persuaded
One day in Algebra, her black thong displayed

Three years later, same thing
They were both in the choir
She made his heart sing
He saw a blue g-string, he blinked
Because he thought he saw a wink

He saw a cute polka dotted pair
On a curvy girl he liked with long hair
His eyes said Hello to a certain Kitty
To a friend of his with big *******

He even got up skirted... A few times
The first time the girl lifted her skirt
And showed the whole class
That her ******* are as green as Spring grass

The second time was funny really
The girl was known as kind of a freak back then
When she did it, she probably didn’t mean it
But the boys’ thirsts needed to be quenched

Whenever history class got boring
A certain girl got him stirring
He daydreamed about her *** going in a circle
And one day he learned about a **** secret that happened to be purple

He saw a pair through yoga pants
After all, they were translucent
She was a dancer
He could see it all, it was magnificent

And one chick was in the band
And the choir
She actually showed it to them on a dare
Hmm, red, good choice of attire.

Through it all
He learned these things
After observation
Warning
This can cause an altercation
These ******* hide the sweetness
That is consummation
Some girls are sweet
Most are sassy
But that was the fun part
What were they hiding?

On a vine grew the loudest tiny flower ever to grow,
Glowing blood-orange in the yellow day’s sun,
It sprung from the brightest green stem
Like an old victrola horn into little
Powdery pistolas firing from the center, piercing ears

Like sound. Inside out along the walls of
The horn shaped a star that daydreamed of first kisses
Dismissive with bliss, or the first feet to ever
Leave their heavy prints on the cold blue surface of the moon.
On a vine grew the loudest tiny flower ever to grow.

The infatuation begins, one thousand five hundred seventy three miles away from my folded futon mattress on an unfinished floor in a sideways run down house with a gravel driveway and a wonky mailbox, across from a little green-grassed pasture with yellow flowers and "dead end" street signs lining the ditches.

Twenty three hours.
That's not that long when you really think about it.
Twenty three hours.
It's pretty far when you really think about it.

It's only the sand in my hourglass trickling down
over and over
and over and over and over.

(I was going to write the word "over" twenty three times,
but then I thought it might get a little annoying...
**** it; I'm going to do it anyway).

and over and over and over
and over and over and over
and over and over and over
and over and over and over
and over and over and over
and over and over and just
one more time.  

You probably haven't closed your eyes or slept even a grain of that sand. I wonder how many flipped figures found you wondering about me.
It's only the tap of a drumstick to an ongoing metronome left running overnight after the musicians were done with the fun of humming.
You probably daydreamed of me singing lullabies in snow covered trees while your professor went on about 3/4 and music theory.

How many paradiddles until we can finally dance to the beat?

An even better question:
How many more clever titled playlists,
how many more empty sheets,
can I accept before I accept that I could fall right on my feet?
How many grains of sand?
How many metronome beats?

After a neat little bite
She slid his sandwich into its baggie
And smiled,
Never tiring of her little joke.

“See, it’s alright. Im here with you, having a little fun!”

After the bell he peered into the bag.
And there it was
And a note:
“I love you, Aaron. “

This morning’s mixture of boredom and fear punctuated by her love

Then he daydreamed of helping with the clothespins,

Sheets snapping in the wind

I've daydreamed of my burial day,
I've thought about,
who I want to come,
If anyone would come,
and you understand,
if you've been on death's end before,

but if what's more important,
or adequate,
is the music performed,
then we get our ends,

and as the soulless bodies glance down,
as I'm buried in,
there will be a concert,
I'll hear,
six feet underground.

I will,
Just
hear,
Sound.


*R.I.P.

Sometimes the sins laugh
frolic chuckle and gasp,

whenever wrath sits there
calm and tranquil, unending care.
when Pride takes precious time,
to look up and face humility,
to remove the thin veil,
to observe another person and care.
when slender lust embraces
for another, soothing the soul
creating safe sanctions - free of sale.
when      g r e e d      gives        to       charity,
               providing,
      safe          havens,
when sloth feels the urge
to work, forging iron bars
and even making emotions and life time scars
when gluttony shares his
fries, and full course meal
when envy faces the sins - and says
‘it’s okay that lust is more curvy, I know I’m happy’

This is all a façade of course. envy said it with morose.
gluttony? He had another meal, and another meal right after that.
Mirrors reveal the real corpse. sloth daydreamed the dream.
greed? what else but the space he took?
How can we be something else. lust has lackluster snide, snark and ***
Pride? He has a deeper veil - one that escapes his avail.

Sometimes the sins want to be sinful.
And sometimes wrath wants to be wrathful.

Deep in his heart
He will miss it as it goes
A pool of rain
His reflection once showed him
Once upon a thousand times
A quiet man once daydreamed
Of the different formations of rain

Yet , what did he have to gain?
The war was almost over
He was such a lonely orphan
He could never confess his silence
He once heard the
Static sounds of rain
A presence of tear drops
Surrounding his eccentric mind

Everything was fading away
Time was just another memory lapse
He daydreamed until he could
No longer hear the sounds of tears
He had once remembered
When he was a child back
Before rain was so feared and hated
Before it was seen as a novel of sin

Under his dear black umbrella
He waited for nothing alone
And the clouds were a
Peppered smokey grey
They were viewed as
The separation of loss
An image of abandonment
From a hollow sky

The latest issues of Tales of Horror, is perfectly positioned in my bible. My eyes gleam with satisfaction as I read how a werewolf ekes out just deserts to a mass ******. A small chuckle slips through my lips. Barely perceptible but in church my mom has eagle ears. With swiftness that would leave the wolfman in awe the comic is swiped from my bible, and I take a smack to the back of my head.


My eyes get heavy. I lose the will to stay awake. Elbow safely secured on the pew, I lean forward as if I am enraptured by what the preacher has to say. Then let go, so close to sleep, a way to get away from the doldrums. The old man drones on in a monotone. Suddenly, he raises his voice. My arms collapses causing my forehead cracks against the pews. A red mark starts to form inching its way across my face like a mutant birthmark. Now I am awake. Eyes glaring forward.

     The brown baptismal curtain reminds me of nutty buddies. My mouth waters with the fantasy of devouring the whole curtain, like some giant trucker. A swelling stomach riding over my cliché buckle, until my fat explodes into some sort of creepy communion wafers and wine. It splatters my fellow church goers in some sick form of salvation. The pale parishioners panic then succumb to some unknown hunger feasting upon the remnant of me like a bunch zombies.  Freed from the need to be rational they rage on. Dead men and women begin to leave the church ready to infect the world with their form of living death.

A hand smacks the back of my head. Mother glowers, the intensity of her gaze is meant to put the fear of god into me, ironically.  The preacher carries on. Some **** about the armor of gods and the denizens of hell oozes out of his dry voice.


My ears ***** up. The sound of mighty warriors ring through the church. Savage blows bounce off the shields of saints. Angels scream, as demons pluck their feathers, plunging them into the furnace that is hell. Smoke fills the pews with the noxious fumes of burning flesh. The **** moan for mercy. Fingers try to rise from perdition only to be chopped off by the razor sharp wings of the Archangels.

“Back to hell you vermin.” The Angels scream.

The recently and expensively redone floors now wear a masses of ****** bodies, some corpses are demons, some are angels. However, all bodies bleed the same color.

Satan’s sinister grin fills the stain glass windows. A fury of wind shatters each pane, causing shards of glass to rain down upon the parishioners. My fellow church goers scream and run away. Their flesh is marred by bleeding scratches. Beneath their feet other parishioners are trampled. Moans of agony rise from the ground, followed by the rising white ash. Puffs of dark smoke swirl around and….

and my mother smacks me in the back of the head again.
“Pay attention.” She growls.

Looking at the clock, I smile devilishly.  It is time for the last prayer. The preacher passes it on to one of the deacons. A small stout figure brushes back his black thinning and greasy hair, and begins to pray.  

“What a relief.” I think.

Fifteen minutes later the deacon is still praying. He has cycled back to the same **** over and over. I swear sometimes the deacons think it’s a contest. They are trying to see who can pray the best.

A hand slams down from the heavens smashing through the ceiling and crushing the Deacon. His obese frame is flattened causing it to explode like a popped pimple. Red juices and slippery viscera paint the aisles.  

A heavenly voice scolds, “knock it off. People have things to do.”
A laugh pierces the pew.

I get another smack to the back of my head. My mother scowls.
“That is it you’re grounded.”
“Awe ****.” I moan and take another smack to the back of my head.

Those fat beams of sunshine sickened me, and I felt as though my insides had been rotting quickly as I strode further. As much as I wanted to love the morning walk, I could not help feeling ill from the hot breeze licking at my face. It held me breathless, pulling me away from my sweet memories of winter, scratching at every mound of cleanliness that my early shower had given me. I hate being here, I whispered in silence. The sun has always been a sign of sickness to me; its hotness a disfigured existence that has been but a threat to my presence. As more shriveled dust traveled to my cheeks, all I could think of was running away as fast as I could, to the very place where the sun could no longer find me; where winter would be mine once more—and eternally this time. As much as I wanted to feel at home, my heart could lie to me no more; for it would not find its sojourn in the new Jakarta. I had to go again, this I knew at that very moment, to fly over the moon and retrieve my autumn from the stars.  

My day started in a daze; the steps I took to the workroom felt nearly weightless. I did not take a glimpse of a single thing along the stairway; in unconsciousness did I slide my chair away from my desk and sit in an awkward position. I was a piece of exhaust, haunted by the sun’s angry rays; the sun brought not light but blindness to my sight. However, this was what happened every morning since I had returned; too often that I was almost unable to identify who I was anymore. All the moves around me seemed like a dream. Yet, now I realise that even though they had been a reality, I would still have considered them a dream. I opened my laptop and started typing into the keyboard. Typing the words that I did not even want to read. Typing into the unknown universe that I would not seek myself in. The universe that I would never find in literature; and so would never be mine.

I had never lived a reality since I had seen Jakarta back again, this is the truth. I daydreamed about a distant place often; one that would not expose me to dire rays of sunshine nor plaster me to the routines I could never fit myself in. The bitterness of having left England washed over me once more this morning. Perhaps I could never win my winter back. Perhaps I would never return. Perhaps it all has left, once and for all. Perhaps I would always be alone. I had but lived in my literature, my poetry, the stories I wrote, all along; and theirs was the only air that keeps me breathing. I would think of the moors of Yorkshire once more, beside the cold boughs of Warwickshire that I had known—and let myself dance through the greenness that I would never forget.

As rain dripped the gutters
fluidly poured over roofs
and plants and flowers
nourishing the soils
of busy boulevards
and it washes out smoke
from cars and cigars and filled cups.

killing time, waiting for you at the bus stop.

As I observed over a million buses,
go swanky in a zap,
passengers, bystanders,
vendors going loco
as the rain blew harder
it made their heads nod.

As I still wait for you here at the bus stop.

As the rain toned down
as it trembled to whispers
like gushing bits of sprinkles
and droplets but so soon they are gone,
daydreamed the possibilities,
my head's deaf and stuffed.


As I still wait for you here at the bus stop.

As the sun shined its rays,
crisp yellow diamonds
penetrate my retina nerves
telling me to wear my sunglasses
along with traffic submerged
along with a reason that it is the same plot,
and everything has changed.

As I wait for you here at the bus stop

Burn in the deep seat of your throat.
Ibuprofen in your sleep.
Naproxen sodium, whatever;
couldn't sleep so he daydreamed
all night.

A room with more than four walls.

Sprouted from the concrete
with resentment and defiance
in his DNA.
Double
Helix-
Hell is two more aspirin to
get through the rest of the shift
and realize it's not enough.

Sprouted from between the cracks
in the sidewalk, birthed into a fight;
sunlight as your first caretaker.
Screamed in his head,
because you think in one volume.
Never bit the hand that fed.

Sprouted from the sidewalk.
Crushed under hurrying heels.
A love story in two weeks.
Died in sunlight,
under white collared boots.
Rush.

the leaves of my mind die,
without rustle, without why,
an incessant new season of direction
of spring, of beauty, of need,
orthodox and counterclocks
of bathroom stalls and
desperation calls--
in the tile we prove our worthwhile
as the hounds and haunts of yesterday
test our haul,
and I'm a magician and a *******,
a lover and a shotty terrorist,
the mad house rings,
sing, sing, sing
of yesterday--of fever dreams,
make me levitate to heavens,
push me away for doorknobs
and summer screens,
those are temporary,
lionesses in heat,
to be appeased
for the watering hole
and mouths of summers sought to soon--
we can romanticize the afternoon,
we can romanticize the mundane gloom,
but in the end we are nomads,
bouncing off shoreline and magazine subscription,
confused of endings
and brave in the face
of annihilation.
Rewrite the histories of our forefathers,
rewrite the reinventions of the wheel,
until it's all progress and simmering,
until the *** is full and festering,
when the now is soon,
and yesterday is dead,
the magnificence of misery--
hits like a runaway diaper truck
to add injury to insult,
to add scorpion to sting,
and if your mother is a dancer,
be not ashamed,
but praised,
she filled a primal need,
more than can be said about
Hemingway or Artaud or Bonaparte or the spring,
I have mountains to climb
and ****** rhymes to satisfy--
if you feel love,
boast,
if not welcome to hell,
a perpetual ****** roast
of ego,
of soul,
of every lover you let go--
the luck lies at stoplight kisses,
the luck lies in ***** sheets
and clean sneakers,
if sorrow is a gateway drug,
heaven is my fix,
if sorrow is a gateway drug,
I'll buy two hells a week for
the rest of my endless years,
if you love me,
do it,
don't doubt,
don't simmer,
ignite,
burn  brighter than former,
than the mourner,
than the funeral singer,
and make dinner on the ground,
we'll howl as the gravestones depreciate,
we'll howl as the stock market
solidifies in ice,
we'll howl as we realize the trite,
and I'm wrong often
but mostly right,
ask the machine gun,
and the sparrow hauling the olive branch,
ask murderers and the stain on your pants,
time is a circus of the three-ring variety,
too much to focus,
too much to bore,
too much to whine,
but under the cover of freedom--
enough to die in contentedness
and lie in the pangs of eternity
with a sigh, a slip of the tongue
and a pair of rolling eyes--
let not your daughter drown,
let not the horns on your head weigh you down,
the tomorrow is soon,
the now is ancient,
the promises to be fulfilled
will leave you begging-
bring on the fantasy,
the daydreamed celibacy,
the marooned integrity,
I've got a moon,
fourteen clouds,
and a headrush from nicotine--
drink of my youth, it's light, easy, cheap--
enough to get you drunk,
but lacking the dexterity of luck--
the burden, the burden
of always giving a ****.

That's my private name for her...Grey Eyes. And they are very, very grey, a lake shrouded in mist. A strange thing, to be in love with a feeling. To be enamored of arrivals, departures, mitigations. Odd also, when someone leads you to an understanding of yourself...or at least, a part of yourself. It is satisfying for me to let futures go. In some strange way, it's fulfilling and sad, for someone to reach out a hand to me across the dark waters. To see a possibility, very much yearned for, and to deprive myself of it. I was given an offer today that I had thought about often, daydreamed and hungered for. Ultimately I declined, my reasons being vague at the time, though my explanation was valid (somewhat). "I get uncomfortable when I can't pack up everything and leave in a day, and I wouldn't want to do that to you". I didn't think about whether I may have hurt her by saying that, though it wouldn't have changed my answer. Something deep inside whispered of danger and confinement should I have taken that road, great sorrows unimagined. Somehow it was deeply moving to be able to stare down my childish craving, and turn away, to be able to recognize that this path was not for me. People like me, people with a history but no story, don't move in with a woman that they have feelings for and end up happy. I've walked that way before, though the stakes were much lower and I much younger. One more test passed. I never wanted to admit this about myself, but now I suppose I can accept it without shame, without anger or judgement. I sometimes enjoy killing my dreams. Rather, killing things about myself that have no purpose but to cause distraction and delay, ideas and hopes that lead sideways rather than forward. Of all the skills taught to me by my Father, this has been the most valuable.

I needed to go to the store the other day,
I was in a big hurry, no time to play,
I grabbed my wallet, my keys, and my hat,
and reached down to pet my friendly old cat
The traffic was bad, cars going fast,
took me forever, but I got there at last,
picked up some milk, some butter, some cheese,
grabbed for my hanky as I started to sneeze
I got into line it was terribly long,
I daydreamed a while, recalling a song,
the man at the checkout was starring at me,
I wondered what, what it could be
He said 'something is wrong' there's a tail from your hat,
I patted my head 'I said it's just my old cat',
he looked at me funny so I said to him,
his name is Fluffy, but I call him Jim
He likes to go with me wherever I go,
and I like him with me he puts on a show,
he pats my nose and licks on my head,
he's more than a cat he's my best friend I said
some may think I'm silly for sure,
but I have a hard time walking out of that door,
without my wallet, my keys to my flat,
but most of all my cat in my hat

Gomer LePoet...

When I was small
I walked on fairy dust and
my dreams were as tall
as skyscrapers towering
above the universe
inside of me, was the galaxy.
I was born of the cosmos,
full of light and love
passionate in my quest to
give this to others.
But as I grew my star began to fade,
stars need love and light to survive
and deprived of both my blazing fire
transformed into weak candlelight.
At school I had learnt it was easier
to hide your light
than to stand out as different
and be extinguished in an instant.
So I kept myself to myself
at the back of the class,
knowing the answers but not
shouting them out.
I daydreamed, and doodled
stars on the corners
of my books, all the while
I could hear the universe
calling out to me to trust,
that we are all born of this
cosmic stardust.

I've traveled through outer space,
sat buckled to the seat,
daydreamed
with aliens all around.

The outside domain was a blur,
I rode supersonic steel
knifing lush countryside
between chasms
of skyscraper structures.

I tried to decipher
the language of such folk,
who seemed unfazed by my jokes.

Their gaze, the same slant,
followed my every move,
I felt like an un-caged freak,
myself an alien
in a future-world
riding bullets.

Nebraska hue-
overshadowing all that you do-
Hollywood stars gaze down through the blackness to you-
A lone wandering vagrant roaming far across the lines-
The cross section severing your life as it defines-
Shaped by the masses, cutting away your beliefs-
pruned by a madman, he glorifies your Grief-
The Here and the Now-
escape me somehow-
so I once daydreamed of you-
Staring at the fields- the mountains- and the snow-
I must be reformed in all i know-

Naivety
I put you on the back-burner one too many times, and that has influenced me in the present day. I still think about it, about us, though the intimacy I was building for you is long gone due to the busyness of my current schedule.
I can’t reminisce like I used to and can’t afford to live in the past anymore. My life has moved to a carpe-diem pace and I’ve become one of those that I had dreaded to become.
A normal.
How naïve of me to be so trusting of things I knew I couldn’t control.
How Naïve of me to believe that my decisions, all made on spur the moment emotion, would lead me in the right direction as oppose to just the direction I was facing. I’m a sucker for it now, learning languages just to express my love in a different tongue, learning dances to woo you into my arms, creating the flirtation I used to have so that I could chat us into a truce, oh, how Naïve I find myself now.
Truth is, the past still haunts me, but my ghosts are mere shadows of me, I’m not effected. I’m hunted by my formers, but I’m a tough quarry, I ***** with anything that seems to be changeable, making me a prime target of changeless society.
Naivety
What I found myself to be when I daydreamed of kissing you, our lips touching and sending tingles to my brain, sending what I would know as one step closer to the final intimacy. But now that step has been postponed, the staircase to heaven out for repair, and I’m stuck in a purgatory of my own creation, one filled with Irony and shame of idiotic past.
Naivety
What I think when I hear someone’s prayers for a soulmate, they don’t work, they just hope, and that’s unjust. Yet it be just my luck they find theirs while I stay here, sinking me deeper into my apathetic and pathetic state of being.
Naivety
The thought that runs through my mind when I think of what I’d ask you now-
Who were we?
Were we even an us, love? Because though it felt real, it was merely a half in a love that required one-fourth.
What were we?
Were we truly lovers? Sure, I loved you, but I never got to say it, never got to express it fully, and that causes an emptiness to echo in my heart. I find it as a settled score: My emptied heart in exchange for your torn and broken one.
Where were we?
Don’t be confused, baby, was your love in the past with another, or were you in the present, thinking of me, smelling my cologne as we cuddled in public, holding hands for the first time, making a display for gawking passersby that we knew? I still chuckle at that to this day, the faces peering over us as we walked, hand in hand, toward a destination to close. But I was too timid and I hadn’t opened up all that much, you were unknowingly initiating me in gradual changes that only you could’ve unlocked in me.
Can I say this to the future? My past made my future, yet my future will eventually become my past. My present isn’t the gift that I desired, but it’s a gift that I cherish regardless. It is my circumstance and my own personal Irony. And so I love it as I love you- the one with the bright smile and dark skin, the one with the chuckle but the sealed lips, the one with the shrug of shoulders but who herself wouldn’t say a word in compromise.
Naivety

december 23/24th 4:06 a.m.

    She couldn't help being drawn to him, his mischievous smile that seemed to hold something back, the air of power that surrounded him, the fire he walked with, self-assured, confident, worrying only about himself. He was untouchable.
    He was everything she dreamed of becoming, although he was only human. He worked hard to achieve his wants, needs, desires, while she could only dream of having the ability to pursue her own wants, needs, and desires. She daydreamed day and night, wasting away, many plans that could have been but never were; she didn't realize her potential, and when she did, she ignored it, keeping it hidden to avoid moving on with life - one of the things she wanted - for fear of change. She could never be like him in that way, which she knew. Seeing him, his eyes meeting hers, fleeting smiles exchanged, she knew it was nothing short of fate.
    She wanted him to save her from himself. He never would.
    She looked to him with questions, fears, an open wound waiting to be healed. She believed he had all the answers, that he was all-knowing, an otherworldly force that could save the day, much like a superhero. She couldn't face the reality that he was a man, only a young boy struggling to keep it together for himself. He too looked up at the moon in wonder, she seated on his lap, gazing through the window with longing eyes. His words would cut her like a jagged blade, always the same question, What are you looking for? She never knew how to respond that she didn't know, her eyes were drawn to the moon, shrouded in mystery and enchantment. He didn't realize she often looked at him that way, absentminded, dreamy, curious eyes that wanted to know more, more, she wanted to know all. She couldn't handle the truth.
    Small things set her off. It was never the big picture, it was always things that could be changed but failed to come to the surface until they became problematic in every aspect of their lives. It was for that reason that they argued publicly, unable to mask the anger that they had suppressed for so long, an anger igniting inside of them, impossible to ignore much less stop. They would shout, throw things, drawing attention to themselves, one of her biggest pet peeves. He didn't care if they looked at him or not, he only saw her, the way her lips moved rapidly, spitting out words, hands making gestures to express her fury which she couldn't contain, causing her to occasionally throw things. Excitement would run through his veins, ready to fix the problem at hand, but it was never that simple. The problem, whatever it may be, was not usually able to be solved with the wave of a hand. It would not go away overnight, she would not forget about it for years, the problems would nest in the back of her memory, rotting away, the stench a reminder that awakened when they would argue about a matter at hand, but unable to resist the previous dilemma she would bring it up, throwing it at him without warning, leaving him to fend for himself blindly.
    She had bruises on her arms, thighs, neck, his fingertips squeezing tightly to leave an imprint which reminded her he loved her, he wanted to be as close to her as possible but she felt it was impossible. He was only a memory, even when he was near, even when he was right next to her, even when he was inside of her. He was never close enough. She craved to be consumed, the way a piece of paper is engulfed by a fire, taking all, leaving ashes. She wished to be his all. She craved his taste, the smell of his hair, the feel of his rough hands, but most of all she missed the way he spoke her name quietly, the way you would a secret. She wished her name were beautiful, soothing as a lullaby, or captivating in its beauty, or different, at least. She wished her name was Luna. It was hypnotizing, exciting, bold, mysterious.
    From a young age she knew of her darkest desire, she was in touch with her worst fears, she faced her faults daily. She knew how cruel and heartless a human being could be, not of evil but of everyday people with many faces, point of views, desires of their own. She knew what they could make that person do. She knew, from the time she was a young girl of about five. The feelings of knowing seemed to come to her without having experienced the ways of another's cruelty first-hand, like intuition it hit her.
    Sitting in her man's lap, head cradled into his chest, tucked under his chin, she admitted that she knew he was hers from the moment their eyes met. Taken aback, his eyes ask dozens of questions but hold them back, waiting for her to speak up, knowing that if he asked "the wrong thing" she would shut up, feeling attacked. Sensing it was alright to talk, she told him of how she felt when he looked at her, the intuition she had spoken about before resurfacing. The urge to talk to him was like an itch unable to be reached: she knew she would regret it if she didn't. He listened carefully without saying a word while she gave details about how his eyes pierced through her, setting her on fire, electric once more. When he first spoke to her, she released a weight in her chest, the satisfaction of knowing that she would belong to a man she had only dreamt of hitting at last. What she didn't share was how she knew she belonged to him in a past life and that they were destined to be together in this one, even possibly in the next. That was why, when he looked at her, the feeling of unease that she carried most of her life melted away, satisfaction hitting her unexpectedly: he was enough - he was everything. His masculinity was intense but it excited her, encompassing her child-like ways, too precious for the outside world.

I have this feeling
I think I lost something.
Or never had it at all.
Did it slip pass me as I daydreamed of tomorrow?
I need someone
A person who knows,
What happiness is.
Rid me of this confusion
Take me on a long drive.
Somewhere new,
Somewhere you knew,
And teach me
How to live.