1,000 letters all stuffed in your mailbox,
Things I’ve thought for hours, days, even during our talks,
All of the things that haven’t left the tip of my tongue,
All of the words that float freely in my mind,
Sentences formed, ready to be spat out, but resigned,
I look into your swimming pool eyes, and I think,
“Just say it already, you can say it this time,”
But my mouth becomes dry as the summertime,
And my tongue can no longer convey.
The tip of my pen, however, is as fearless as can be,
he wrote you 1,000 letters, and I’m sorry, it’s a lot to read,
Those 1,000 letters didn’t cramp my hand for one second,
but they’re letters that I would have much rather said,
or sang, or telepathically conveyed, but I brought letters instead:
letters I didn’t want to have to write to you in the first place.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 6:58 PM UTC
[A prose poem]
I see a palm reaching out for me, from the pitch black.
I try to sleep and close my eyes, but I still see this palm, trying to cover my face or scratch the skin it hates– I close my eyes and I still see it.
I know where this palm came from.
I know it from the time the backdrop was not dark, but a horrid party at a lonesome house where I had too many shots. I know this palm will try to take whatever it wants, and it’ll crook its fingers and slide wherever it pleases, without caring to come back to my face when the tears roll down; it does not care to treat them, it does not care to wipe them. It does not care.
Its been more than a year now, and still I go to sleep and think of hands. Of the word “no”, and how useless it is, just like trying to get some good sleep now. I close my eyes and try to forgive every one of those fingers.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 6:50 PM UTC
What I love about you floats through my head,
and I realize that every moment I’ve ever loved has transpired in your bed.
A lot has happened there, in your room with the dark shades:
talking, crying, laughing, sweating, screaming—all in your bed.
The same things over and over, better and better,
Each time we would lie there, together, in your bed.
Sleep is in the past, no sleep for us would last.
I don’t think I’ve ever been fully clothed in your bed.
I’d wear a lot of red, and black, for that matter,
two small pieces of cloth that were quickly lost in your bed.
I like to think about the milestones—not the ones at restaurants,
not the birthdays, nor Christmases—but the ones in your bed.
The first time you told me you loved me,
surprise, surprise: we were lying in your bed.
I miss the talks, the cries, the movies we watched,
the countless hours we spent, holding each other in your bed.
The physical—my favourite—the naughty, naughty
things we've done: I wish every one of them happened in your bed.
Some were in mine, but they didn’t fulfill the same thrill,
even in mind-blowing places, I wished we were in your bed.
Your bed is cold and hard—a place I would never want to sleep alone.
As you could have imagined: I don’t love the plain thing that is your bed.
I love that it smells like you, that it’s where you fall asleep:
these are the two things I like best about your bed.
A bed is sacred to a person and I love that you've invited me into yours.
I could imagine that you miss mine, and I miss mine too, but my bed is not your bed.
I miss you as I write—don’t get me wrong,
but the thing I want most right now is to be with you in your bed.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 6:45 PM UTC
She opens a window
and hopes for the sky
to fall in from outside
and it's tailwind bring
her the moon and the clouds
lined with silver, a crowd
of the finest of stars
and a spare pair of wings..
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 3:10 AM UTC
off the roof
like
rain
from
the
gutters
eaves
filling
with
blue
berry
ink
i
taste
the
sweetness
on
the
warm
tongue
of
pages
before
they
blow
away
with
my
breath
.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 3:07 AM UTC
One need only look to the four winds
to find four frowns;
eight sad eyes
straining to see
through stained glass tears.
The man said "I die daily" but
he didn't have a constant stream of
status updates
to maintain.
I define myself daily.
Being special has
thus far
not protected me from
the unbearable weight
of today.
All of the analog cigarettes and
old fashioned daydreams
in the world
cannot save me now.
If I'm not seen
am I really here?
Heavy hearts and weary heads
reside respectively in the chests and on the necks
of everyone I encounter.
The gas station attendant
feels empty and
is bereft of a sense of irony.
The world ends
not with bang OR whimper,
but
with a deep and baleful sigh...
with a deep and baleful sigh...
with a deep and baleful...
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 9:43 PM UTC
I slipped down into embracing
the dim state of morning solitude,
avoiding reality like the plague,
the sound of my heart—blued, subdued.
Sullenness was painted on my face
like the blue sparkling butterfly,
for three tickets at the carnival that day.
I cried before the paint could dry.
I poured cream into my coffee—
not milk as I did the day before,
but this day was a new day—
a day to run to the liquor store.
The first day with myself by my side
in place of you.
The first day I drank wine,
before the coffee could brew,
I couldn't drink my coffee,
I couldn't eat my toast,
I couldn't go back to bed
because that’s what I missed the most.
I didn’t wake up next to you,
the first eyes I met should've been yours.
If I might’ve seen the glisten in your eyes,
and those tears not have poured,
I might not have picked up the knife,
might not have been drawn to the blade,
might not have dimmed the lights,
might not have locked all of the doors.
First thing that dim morning,
if I’d not thought of you,
if you’d left my mind before I could wake,
I might've been on Earth today.
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 9:38 PM UTC
Infatuation. Deep devotion.
Skin on skin, fingers on lips
Find teeth, find tongue.
Scent of perfumed lotion,
Whisper woman, cry more,
Hands refusing to untangle
Hands on neck, but not to strangle
More than just a little.
Infatuation. Deep devotion.
Nails in skin. Mouth to shoulder.
An emotional explosion in
Slow motion.
Mar 13, 2016
Mar 13, 2016 at 8:23 PM UTC
Lighting a candle before my bedside,
I slip a small piece of my past
underneath the brass holder
to catch the waxy overflow.
A pink envelope addressed to
(my love)
encases the torn and tattered teardrop-filled
piece of stationery paper.
Your words mush together with the
slight scent of beeswax and sage
and my mind wanders off to an unknown place
3 am:
Awaking to the smell of
an almost-smoke
burning my nostrils
burning my curtains
Is this what it was like
loving me?
Loving you was an ongoing river
each rush getting away from me
the second I felt it
while the rocks, the biggest burdens,
stay in place,
unmoved, unsolved
The light of the candle flickers
as I watch the fiery masterpiece
flow over the room
I lit the candle before my bedside.
I knew the consequences,
repercussions
of loving you.
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 5:41 PM UTC