little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.

the sea, the rain and the stars,
they must feel this way too-

tangled with desire
and always the beloved,
never able to give it back
in quite the same way it's received.

everything tastes vanilla,
what's the point in having a favorite color?
she's got thoughts and legs longer than pi,
and a bite bluer than her latest depression
but she always finds you down there in that sad valley-
doesn't she?
singing on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and

love will tear you apart- make you bleed on the floor. it will be the very death of you as you know you. a new season is being ripped open with the force of an angry 6 year old on christmas morning. there is no going back, no round trip to this breaking away. you are forever separated by the glass door you have just exited from, free from the chilled air inside but now you begin to melt like an ice cream cone on a hot summer day.

love comes crashing down in waves of hate. hate so potent you realize all this time you had forgotten what it meant to be completely drunk on an emotion so negative, your teeth will ache with longing to sink deep enough to break the skin.

but once its over- that’s it. the wind will calm and the tide returns to normal. small waves flow in and out with the eery silence of mourning- not loud enough to speak of. your quiet weeping remains though the crowd will have left by now, no longer entertained by your sorrows, no more pity left to hand out.

Lying on a bed but maybe it’s not your bed,
maybe it’s the sheets sticking to your back and twisted around your ankles, contacts taped to your eyeballs and waking up at noon to his whiskers kissing your forehead.

You were fleeting,
like a perfect photo passing you by
on a long car ride,
the one you won’t forget about,
at least for the next few miles.

But I guess that’s what happens when you’re in transit,
you meet people and you let them pass you by,
because it’s not the right time.

They’re so beautiful-
maybe for just that moment,
and maybe even more beautiful than the ones who stayed,
because you know they’ll be gone soon.

Like soft serve sliding down your hand
in the heat of an afternoon,
there was a sense of urgency
to your sweetness
that only I could taste.

I’ve created a list,
it’s in my head.

It’s things
I’ve never said.

“Who knows
if we’re meant to be,
my love.”

But the tide still
moves,
and I’ve still got you.

“Maybe I like holding hand guns,”
she said.

They all ask
“When will you go for a nice boy?”

But I’d rather enjoy
my cold one.

Let the ice drip down my back,
cooling my romance off-

“it’s another hot one,”
she insists.

Like’s to see how numb she can get
before the sickness sets in.

Stuck in the dark,
thinks beauty must be dead.

The demons have started to look soft,
and the sweet words have gone to her head.

"What’s a boy without danger?"
A lust that’s dead.