is celebrated with a call through tin can phones
connected by yarn- to us. He sends warm wishes and warnings, slurred together as spirits replace blood. Our kiss was nine rings around the tin can ago, under a streetlamp where you've unveiled a pool of Acacias and shamrocks.
We are crafted of cement chips from the streets we once sauntered.
We grasp for one another's hands on playground equipment,
stomachs full of one-dollar cinnamon rolls from Jewel-Osco,
cowering from the sun like children in a blanket fort.
we are safe when we are together we are invincible
There will always be splinters of us. My name
is spelled out where the light meets the street –
a balmy, January sunset birthing,
crawling to a dry.
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 12:15 AM UTC
Dear You,
I hope your day is wonderful. I want all of your days to be wonderful. I want you to wake up and smell roses, or dance in the rain, or be able to look in the mirror and just smile. I want you to know that someday you will make someone so incredibly happy, and that you'll be their whole world. I want you to know that you are incredible. You're perfectly imperfect. You're so special.
I want you to know that you're my happiness. And I know that we are just friends and that I shouldn't feel the way that I feel because you couldn't feel the way that I feel and it isn't fair for me to even think that we could be anything other than friends, but I think about you all the time. I dream about you every night. You're the first thought when I wake up in the morning, and you're the my final prayer every evening.
I want you to know that I am completely aware that this could never be anything at all. You aren't interested, and it has nothing to do with me but with my gender. No matter how many drunken nights you say otherwise, you will wake up sober and only want a woman. And I want you to want me all the time.
I want you to know that I'm okay with that, because there is absolutely nothing else I can do. I can't change who I am to please you, and I would never want to anyway. I want you for who you are, and I want you all the time.
I want you to know that I would love you unconditionally, that I would give the world to you, all wrapped in a little bow if it would make you smile- God, I love your smile.
I want you to know that in this whole wide world there are 7 billion people, and each and every individual is beautiful in their own unique way. In this world there are 7 billion different faces with different personalities, all of which will fall in love, smile, fall out of love, hurt, and fall in love with a different person all over again.
I want you to know that within those 7 billion people there is only one you, and you are perfectly imperfect. You are the only person I want. I could spend the rest of my days looking at your face and that would be okay. I don't need an incredible life with fame and fortune, because having you would be the most fortunate thing.
And I want you to know that even though you'll never want me, you are all I've ever wanted.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 2:11 AM UTC
there are no words
for the way my ski
n electrifies when y
our smoke wraps ar
ound our bodies and
sends shivers down m
y spine because you a
re trickling your finge
rs down my ribs and s
ometimes i can not hel
p but think about how
blood felt trickling dow
n my wrists and by the
time you came around
i was so far gone that i
'm more than surprised
about how someone wh
ose smile is always six m
iles wide could love some
one who wants to be bur
ied six feet under and if i
lost the chance to tell you
that i love you, then i don
;t know where i would be
and if i make my bed in a
grave before you do i hop
e you never pick up the bo
ttle again and try to find s
olace because we both kno
w that anesthetics are neve
r any different from poison
s and if your nerve endings
remember my touch and y
our breath gets short but h
eavy when you think you j
ust got a text from me but
you remember that the te
xt will never come; i want y
ou to know that i love yo
u and that you can make it
through anything and if yo
u do just one thing in my r
emembrance then i want y
ou to never ******* drink
my taste away because no
matter how strong you se
em i still think that my p
assing will make you a lit
tle uneasy and a little diff
erent maybe and i wonde
r if you'll cry anywhere c
lose to as much as i used t
o cry on a nightly basis a
nd will you sneak out an
d walk down to the stop
sign where we exhaled a
nd inhaled smoke and we
held each other and ****
man when i laid on the as
phalt i still wished a car w
ould come speeding by e
ven though that's so ****
ed up and this isn't even a
poem it's just a ****** up
story but if you ever love
d me at all, you won't pi
ck up the bottle- you wo
n't take a shot even if it m
eans remembering the tr
igger.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
I am distant
I am
the cold wind
howling through
Bare trees
I am
a single
snowflake
falling
to the pavement
melting on impact
I am
the spitting
before the rain
I am nothing
except a warning
before the big storm
It is nothing
Because
I feel nothing
I mean nothing
To this lonely world
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 6:59 PM UTC
Do you remember
the night when we were
leaned against your
car
and your car radio played
a song about
those ******* beautiful
stars?
You whispered to me
that you were happy
and I was happy,
too.
Those feelings
eroded like stones into
streams and you took
those ******* beautiful
stars with
you.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 4:49 PM UTC
I live for sunrises down south and late nights under city lights.
For the smell of french fries in the air conditioning.
I live for mornings where I'm driving home to the sun rise
and school buses pass me by
and passers by are making a routine stop to their local drive thru.
I live for the mornings where I spread awful news in a pleasant way
throwing on my sweatshirt that encourages my surrounding
engaging in long phone calls with a relative, my best friend,
and spicy coffee with an elegant design in a large glass mug.
I live for days where I lay down on my bed with a fan in my face
after being leaned over the couch burying my face in the air conditioner
cause its ******* hot outside and the air conditioning isn't doing enough.
I live for the days spent on the front room floor with gifts galore because Santa came the night before;
the five of us gather on to the couch and floor and wait our turn to hear our names called
while we shoo'd the dog out of the middle of the floor.
Oh how I miss that dog.
I live for nights where we visit the coffee shop
and we sit around for a bit not knowing what to talk about
but we end up kissing at your apartment anyways.
I live for other nights at the coffee shop when its winter and we're on a date
where we order our tea and coffee and we hold hands like lovers would
and we walk and sit by ourselves and you sing to me songs that you've written.
That's the only time I've lived for nights like those.
I live for the first day of school and those unpleasant ice-breakers
the time-wasters
the 'tell-us-something-interesting-about-yourself' even though I don't give a *******
I live for first encounters with a new face
the before-you're-officially-together chase
that part of the relationship where you reach second base
and the end where they tell you "I need some space."
For the sight of skyline on I-94.
For the smell of crayons and wooden floor boards
perfectly tuned guitar chords
soft pretzels at the shopping mall
and Jack White's voice.
For the sounds of a skateboard hitting concrete
for busy feet on a city street
and excited gasps when we stepped foot into our unexpected suite.
I know this sounds cliche, but I live for another person's embrace
pulling into a front row parking space
receiving your first gift to me, a turquoise cigarette case
longing for the day I'll touch Leonardo DiCaprio's face.
I live for torso-pressing-into-the-lap-bar roller coaster drops
the season of tank tops
travel brochures from truck stops
drunk stumbles to the pizza shop
watching re-runs of Wife Swap
and collecting shot glasses from gift shops.
I live for nights of "real talk" with close friends
dreaming of studio apartments full of odds and ends
and writing a poem with an odd end.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 2:14 AM UTC