Warm coffee, foldable chairs, and wholly sounds--
maybe this is the way to spend your free Wednesday nights.
At least then there will be an escape from calculus and combustion reactions.
Here pencils are used to write a different language,
one with a beat.
Between toe taps and smiles there's a place for the music to go.
It seeps in through the molded cracks and bounces around
like the acoustics.
Hold fast and don't blink, take it all in.
Go home and hum to yourself.
Sit down at the piano and remember the night spent
with the kind local stars
hoping to hear their sound
until the night breaks.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 11:22 PM UTC
As I sit here listening to you through my phone,
I can't help but think how familiar you've become.
Your smell as you walk into my room,
and the sounds of your guitar played so simply
while trying to figure out just the right chord.
Your laugh when you look at something embarrassing,
and the little symphony of noises you make
while falling asleep.
You see, the truth is, I don't mind.
I don't mind being familiar with these things.
I don't mind that you don't always want to talk,
but that you want my presence anyways.
I don't mind watching videos of you
in your younger years and listening to the
sentimental pop music that accompanies it.
The truth is, I rather like them.
I like feeling the familiar curve of your body
when it's curled against mine.
I like that you look to me during scary movies,
even though I'm just as afraid.
Familiarity isn't just an empty word.
For most, it's the feeling you get when you
walk in the front door after being gone a long time.
For me, it's the feeling I get when I walk through the front door
of a caribou, or a movie theater, or baseball stadium...
and see you waiting on the other side.
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 1:51 AM UTC
You're here even when you're not.
You exist between the cracks in my bed,
and within the fibers of my pillow.
I can still feel your footsteps in the floorboards;
the smooth wood where your toes crept across,
and the indent you left with your heel.
I can still feel where your hands came to rest on me,
only moving with the rhythm of my lungs.
Your breathing was the only calm thing in the room
as I molded you into me, locking in our shape.
They put the walls up to contain me,
but you're the only person who ever could.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
The sighs that roll off my chest would be useful
if they were into your neck. I'm not a smoker,
but your touch is like pure nicotine and I sizzle
like a dying cigarette.
The ocean hanging on the wall is nothing
like the ocean in your eyes.
The shore is battered and eroded with the
heavy waves that caused the warning signs.
I ignored them.
The sound of your breath is better than
any sleeping pill, but with twice the risk.
The labels would be the same.
Don't take in excess.
The result could be just as fatal.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 12:40 AM UTC
The problem with looking at flowers is that
the petals fall when no one is watching.
Slowly they start to wilt
in the absence of the eye,
and their tears seep into the ground
like yours did.
Oxygen is limited and all the
false romance is ****** out of
each cell when the light fades.
The moon starts to get indecisive
and can't decide just what to wear
like you did.
The sea gets offended
by this lack of control
and rushes towards the shore in an angry daze
like you did
after visiting the garden that night.
You sat there with your cigarettes
too close to the paper
and told me that we're all stuck
in an ever changing world
that can never make up its
********* mind.
I believed you.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 1:58 AM UTC
When I walked in to biology class a couple days back,
I found a gum wrapper
sitting on my desk.
It was torn in half, with the remaining piece folded
right side over left.
It became apparent that someone had left it there,
deeming it unimportant.
As I sat there in biology class, bored as hell,
I began to twirl that little piece of paper
between my fingers.
All of the Wrigley's, printed across the outside,
became acquainted with the space between
my thumb and forefinger.
But when the wrapper fell from my grasp
and on to the floor, I realized
how easy it was
to let it.
Hours could pass, even days,
and no one would bother to look
at the crumpled piece of paper
sitting on the floor.
When I extended my foot to guide it
back within my reach, it came to me
how appealing the green box of recycling
looked too.
Here was a gum wrapper, an inanimate object
of no apparent value, forgotten by a student.
But it was not the breaking of the no gum rule
where things went wrong.
The real prize, most would argue,
was within the wrapper.
The rest should be trash.
But, despite the laws of recycling,
the wrapper was left here,
sitting on my desk,
in biology class.
I decided to pick it up.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 1:16 AM UTC
When you asked if I'd like to get coffee, I knew if I went
that it would be the last time that I would see you
for the first time. I went anyways.
After I saw you there, sitting with your friends,
I realized all my previous conjectures were fashionably wrong.
Things started to become clear when your knee
settled against mine, and our eyes locked fatally
for the first time.
It was then I began to fathom that I wanted
to touch you how you turn the pages of a book
when you're lost between the words.
It occurred to me that you could read
the names and dates and causes
of death off a gravestone, and
I would still sit and listen to the way
that your voice collides with
all that empty space.
The one thing I knew I would never be able
to do was put you into words. Yet here I am,
trying anyways.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 12:19 AM UTC
The rain that's been falling for the past 17 hours
would look good dripping from your shoulders.
It would pool at the edges of your hands,
right past the calluses you have from
seducing the frets, that could just as easily
****** me.
It wouldn't take much, just a condensed
exchange of skin cells and oxygen,
opposed to the usual
phone number.
The numerical value would be much less
than the value of sharing the borrowed space
of the room
anyways.
Maybe one day we'll open up like
the clouds and create something that
drips from the edges of our minds
instead of our hands
and ****** the storm raging within us
along with the frets.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 12:58 AM UTC
I don't like writing about you, because frankly I don't know how.
I can't write about the way you looked today, because then I'd have to
mention how your whole face was engulfed by your smile, like a wildfire with endless oxygen that's exchanged between us. I'd have to include the manner in which the waves of your silken hair fall on your neck, and creep across your collarbones, like a full moon's tide. I can't write about your sense of humor, because I would have to go into detail about how it brings out my goofy smile, and we've already covered that. I can't elaborate on your eyes, because all the dictionaries in the universe couldn't team up and find a proper adjective to do so. The truth is, darling, I could write about all these things, but there isn't a single way I could twist my words to form you on this piece of paper, and frankly, it could never do you justice.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 10:12 PM UTC
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Let us stroll, hand and hand,
While the cities fumes encircle us, like a marching band
The moon will wake from its drunken stupor
Only to ask who the hell we are
We’ve met before, you say
As I steal a glance, and we walk away
Down the nicotine streets
Past the rusted pub on the corner
and the funeral mourner
With his stolen beggars cup
That no longer contains coins
But instead a lover called jack
He looks familiar, you say
Always in the last pew, back in May
You haven’t been back to the chapel since
Constantly wondering, and questioning the Prince
As our heels become worn
and the sun begins to yawn
We arrive back
at my little brick place
The steps a little too steep
and the roof a little too slanted
The flowers never planted
Next time, you’re following me, you say
As I slip the key into the lock, and you walk away.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC