There is an uncomfortable ledge on the tip
of your tongue. It is the place where your
flimsy thoughts uneasily sway, and in these
debating moments of loosely hanging on,
you decide to spit or swallow. For you, it is
the worst place for words to stoop, and
sometimes your tongue just flicks them out
like cigarette buds and all you can do is look
down the ledge in disbelief. I catch the words
at the bottom, salvaging rusted-penny-like
sentences. If I pocket enough, I know I will
be able to give them worth. I will surely turn
uncertain stammers into something much more
amiable and toss myself up the sill; our anxious
balconies colliding and combining. I absorb
the last fretful words, out of your mouth,
and sip the apology slowly off your lips.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 2:41 PM UTC
Cheap,
convenience
store coffee,
steaming
out of
a styrofoam
cup,
clacking
against the
walls. Just
as I sip
veteran brewed
mocha mud,
burnt,
I unerringly
gripe about
those late
library
fees; my pockets
are parched.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
And I think growing up had more
to do with the struggle of validating
your pipe dreams and protecting your
worlds virginity, than it ever had
to do with transcending your naive mind.
It became difficult to hope for
something figmental, let alone comfortable,
so you accept reality as only concrete.
Perhaps that is why you began to
digress through third grade
crushes, because it was the closest
thing to impossibility but borderlined
on the edge enough to authenticity
and tangible reality that it was okay.
And that was when you definitely sensed it,
that hundred to one feeling.
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC
Would you let
me love you
to the point
it sews to
your skin
and when
you rub your
hands
together
you feel it
and you
begin to
love the
way your
surface
feels and
you come
to love
yourself
as well?
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC
My jeans ripple strands of faded
ponds curling around criss crossed
legs. The arc of my back hanging
over college ruled notebook paper
and I am sitting in the nook under
the staircase because I do not like
explaining to people why I am
so
*******
awkward.
And I might still try to die but if I
do not, I do not care all the same.
The air in my mouth is slightly stale
and seeping through the crevice of
my lips, like a draft, but they purse
tighter and I could almost hear my
breath beating against the back of
my teeth. Yell at me and travel your
voice close enough to cling to my
disadvantaged self-esteem and far
enough to send postcards when I
think I have had enough of this place.
If you want to talk too, I guess that
would be okay except my thoughts
are louder than you, so let me please
monologue
your
ear.
You can tell me how disproportionate
our relationship is after you help me
salvage what is left of my rationality.
Jan 19, 2014
Jan 19, 2014 at 3:26 PM UTC
Threads of cotton
corkscrewing
through blankets,
blending flesh
with fabric.
Flicking rain
drops off the
surface
of window
panes,
penciling my
name over
your skin with
my teeth.
Tremoring fingers
tracing your
silhouette,
sensing your
rapture wrapped
in
apprehensive
heart beats,
hanging on the
fibers folding
over our
unstitched
bodies
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 10:19 PM UTC
The coiled phone wire wrapped
around her capricious fingers,
Her chest, pitched then collapse,
air solders clings cleaves splinters,
She sighs, she suspires
And her eyes communicate a vision
veering away from her present self,
Swerving in and out of ambition,
I could never gather all that she felt,
She sights, she seeks skyward
Her mouth leaks what she muses,
her lips remind me of victorian doorways,
The wood, the skin, it bruises
as she absorbs enclosing disarray,
She cries, she is tired
The way she leans in her maroon pants
Her hands plunging in her pockets,
I fervidly hope she finds other plans,
revives abandoned passions, left in cluttered closets
Jan 18, 2014
Jan 18, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
Gods that
fall on
the
laps of
men.
Minds
that
incarserate
thoughts
and the
resemblance
of the
two.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 8:35 PM UTC
I've sat and I've thought. I've found
purpose and I've lost it. The cigarette,
I sip it slowly and strongly, surely it
fills what is empty inside me. Ember
that sears, smolder, singe, a hope that
in the life of a cigarette, we burn out
but are absorbed by the air that
surrounds us, lifts us. If I close my eyes
I can dream and if I close my hands I
can grasp; two realities collide and the
nothing becomes something. We have
the memories, the stains, that politely
remind us of moments since.
Remembering what each breath felt
like, what each breath was for.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 5:38 PM UTC
I think I remember the way I undressed my bed
and the letter placed on a pillow with words that read
"There was not a hand free when there should have been,
only a small smile spread for too thin"
I stared and stared at the folded paper note,
reading your names over again as I slipped on my coat
I walked towards the window and the floorboards creaked
with every step they groaned goodbye and my knees fell weak
The window cold and fogged, felt like a memory
My forehead pressed against the glass, felt like a friend to me
The naked trees swing their skinny branches through grey skies
and patches of brown grass and a rotting fence apologize
My reflection older and defined, drained and I hardly recognize
I twist around abruptly when I hear a light tap on the door,
turn the **** to reveal a woman of barely twenty four
And I follow her eyes to the middle of the room and I see,
a little girl laying on a throw rug looking up at me
I heard my mothers voice but her words were muffled
The girl stared and said little, her movements were subtle
I took a step back and held on tight to my breath
When the girl got up and followed the woman out, nothing was left
Just me a bare floor an empty bed and my voice that echoes
"At what age did I begin to let go?"
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 3:55 PM UTC