I could wear red,
But you’d still touch me
Running past the signs
Like a self-entitled racecar;
Even yellow has you going
Revving up against me
Throwing caution in a bin,
When will you learn to read me?
I don’t need your tires
Skidding on my potholes,
Making a mess of marks on my body,
What could send a message?
Maybe orange?
Please do not speak to me
Construction up ahead,
Too busy fixing all the holes people left behind.
Or would you just run over the cones too?

Take me through the motions
one last time,
let me trail along
with my drifting eyes,
and let me hear those songs
I never could remember
or show me pictures of mountains
I would never climb,
let my feet shift slowly behind you,
tell me stories I've heard a million times,
and let me realize if I miss you or not.

When I told you I loved you with all my heart,
perhaps you never understood.

My heart is like a magnificent skyscraper and every story was lit like a fancy casino,
glamorously shimmering from its hundreds of windows.
I made sure it was always lit from your view.
Though, I have a confession to make:
It was very rarely that my light was strong enough to hold by itself.
In fact, the lights would shut down more often than I’d have liked to admit to you, or anyone else.
No, the lights were nearly broken and not even a backup generator could hold such a behemoth of a building, and so I would panic.
I panicked and did my best to light it for you because you deserved the prettiest view.
I brought candles.
Thousands upon thousands would illuminate the rooms just bright enough for you to look up at the windows and smile because they were lit and you imagined a place as beautiful as it once was.

Though it wasn’t any longer.

The candles on the first floors would melt and burn out while I’d sprint up the stairs to carry more to the middle floors. My flames were burning faster than I could run, my lungs wanted to give out trying, bursting and frazzling like my lighter (which, it too, needed replacing). I was so carried away, caught in the motions of burning and burnouts that I would trip up the steps and injure myself. I cried as I spilled hot wax down my hands, my arms, and I would peek through my windows with tears, noticing the days you no longer looked up at them. I tried even harder to light the place, I brought bigger candles, maybe they’d hold longer, maybe I could have had more time. You looked up now and again and I felt like maybe you’d finally understood. Then you left and, well, I realized you never knew how hard it is to keep the lights on.

I let them burn out for good.

I keep hesitating, hovering my match over a few candles, wondering if it’s worth pretending my love is still easy. I’ve tossed my old light bulbs out the windows just to see them shatter. I thought maybe if you’d walk by and see the broken glass, you’d want to know for yourself and see what I put myself through.

Yet, all you did was ignore the sounds of the glass smashing against the concrete, the sounds of my shoes rubbing the shards into the pavement, and me.

I still light a few candles here and there, but after a few hours, I have the urge to put it out again so I drown them in buckets of water.

My heart is a mess, and I wish now that instead of just looking up at the illumination, you would have wanted to be involved, and that you would have taken the time to gander inside the building for a change. Why did you never do that for me?

I wasted my time,
Trying to figure you out
But to my dismay
You found nothing to say.

I don’t know why
I thought that maybe I’d try
To talk to you soon
But that plan was doomed.

So I waited it out
Took small steps in the crowd
Hoped you would look back
Yet it wasn’t like that.

Oh why did I think
That maybe it’d work
If I just put in
More than it’s worth?

Don’t think twice
I made mistakes that aren’t nice
And I know I’ll keep trying
Though your presence is like ice.

Remember this,
but I can't be sure,
if I spoke to him or not,
if I left my door unlocked,
if I lost my books upstairs,
if I started what I needed,
if I even brushed my hair
because my mind refuses stimulus
and all I know is that it clears,
everything from my memories
leaving me in a haze, protecting me from something,
experiences I can't remember why I fear,
making it harder to rationalize my emotions,
as if I needed more paranoia
if I could remember
what he said to me,
when I closed myself off,
when I left my guard down,
when I began noticing these trends,
when I stopped caring if I was okay,
and all I know is nothing
from what stings,
leaving me all alone in a horrible fright
of thoughts I can't resurface.

Warm color palettes can't cover up a cold palette heart.

I've got to hand it to you,
the curvature of your palms
are so impeccable,
that they easily slip into
the palm of another,
with skin smooth or roughed
by work, and yet even those fingertips,
slender, stubby, even some missing or bent,
can delicately intertwine
as if all gestures could be made together
and your skin and fingerprints could merge
with each touch like a puzzle piece
offered in twos,
designed to craft and to hold on
forever.

I have squandered so much energy
hoping to understand you,
that I regretfully left none for myself,
and anything learned is naught;
next time leave me a blank letter
since that gives more substance
than simply walking away.

Flash forward.
Flashback.

Progress isn't possible
without a little dip in the pool
so keep looking back;
trip over the wires,
set them off and see what happens.

Flash forward.
Flashback.

Drag me through the mud,
but don't let me look
at the mess I've made
in the mirror.

Flash forward.
Flashback.

Hear that voice.
Hear it.
HEAR IT.
Hear it and weep.

Flash forward.
Flashback.
Flash forward.
Flashback.
Flash forward.
Flashback.
FLASH FORWARD.

*Please don't take me back there.

Lest we forget your mistakes;
they seep into mine
making us both cold sinners.

Stay with me, somehow,
and see the world as I see it,
pretty and dreary,
though more dead than alive,
and squint your eyes into the sizzling desert,
riddled with hollow bones,
and look further to the flowering cacti;
then maybe you would see me reflecting back
in its fruit and know that it is my life;
I tempt death's grip,
but he cannot reach one so destined to survive
regardless of such extremes of hot and cold
or of such arid landscapes,
but I musn't sip at the clouds searching for water,
and maybe I'd admit I've tried,
so stay with me, somehow,
and discover me for yourself.

I'm the kind of flower
that grows out of concrete,
but with one look,
I appear just like a ****.

I've got a reinforced stem
and a will to burst through the cracks;
I don't wilt without water,
and I refuse to cut back.

I grow in adversity,
under the shade, in the dust,
in the hard rock pressing against
my roots, when it's rough;

but I'm not some simple dandelion
waiting for grubby hands to rip from the dirt,
I'm a flower, not a ****,
I cannot be deterred.

I never knew I could feel so shattered,
simply by leaving your room,
by hanging up a call too soon,
having my throat burning and clogged with a vigorous pain,
something that boils inside me
every time we have to walk away,
and I never knew I could miss someone while being just a foot astray,
a step too far has me clenching my hands together,
biting my lip,
trying to understand why I feel so strained;
why did no one tell me I could miss you like this?

Dance, dance, dance,
string me up,
rip my heart
and puncture my lungs,
pull me close and
swing me around,
watch as your little star
drops to the ground.

"Is it all you dreamed of?"


She wished to be rich, famous;
to prance round with her name in
bright lights, flashing; a star all her own.
God, was she was happy-

She had a great debut, immediately a sensation;
people galore, a sea of pens, paper,
cameras swarming, flash after flash,
each one crowding her every movement,
enclosing her.

Where was her escape? Where were the exits?

Her face on every newspaper, magazine, like a microscope image;
her faults hand-picked, like ripe fruit, a grape carefully picked off the vine and crushed slowly between the fingers.

What a dream she had thought long ago.

Never did sacrifice drift through an ear,
the day she walked onto the stage.
She sighed as she covered her panicked face,
yet more paparazzi engulfed her.

Soon her cheering fans ceased to exist,
her ideas merely trivial, a mistake;
scandals, fights, tears, she took a deep breath,
she couldn’t keep up with the spiral much longer,
Her name was known.

“Is this what you dreamed of?”
One drink after another, glass after glass,
she watched her career drown with.


Are all dreams worth living?

Palpitating palpitating
boom boom bust
a little bit of water makes a metal heart rust
palpitating palpitating
boom boom pow
your gears wound up but you don't know how
palpitating palpitating
boom boom crush
too many repairs make a weak heart mush.

Somehow I knew you before
in a cottage;
in tepid water;
in the absence,
waiting in
songs,
stories,
my own prayers,
and in dreams detailing
small snippets of the to-be
like clippings of newspaper.

I thought I’d lost you,
and I waded through hail
and quicksand,
trying to dig deeper,
but I hadn’t met you yet,
so when I started to remember
these sounds
sleeping in my mind
I knew I had to trek back.

Your voice plays,
like a record long saved, tucked away,
playing as it did the very first time;
each touch, a step
to a dance I always loved
but convinced myself I’d forgotten;
your smile, a comfort lost in childhood
somewhere,
a sun shining in my memories,
and I knew I recognized it.

You had to be ethereal.

Dreams wash over my eyes
as my body trembles in sweat
beneath my sheets
chilled and starched
and with a resemblance
to the space of night
jumbled with stars from
the galaxy's jar;
left with my sputtered breaths
declaring disarray with
what the world has cooked
and what the conscience designed.

A disillusioned nightmare knocking at my door,
creeping slowly,
gaining on me,
skidding through the floor;
fragility is fractured,
hallucinations are a hoax,
and it's certain that clouds,
not blood clots, were meant to float,
so when the mirror curves,
like a dagger for the conscience,
every nerve frays like an abandoned fabric,
torn, shredded, limp and unseenly,
even night terrors are afraid of scathing reality.

Funny how when I write diary entries,
they're nothing but cryptic,
just in case someone else manages to read it,
because my fear consumes me,
and Roosevelt was right,
as the only thing to fear
is what keeps me up at night.

People underestimate words on a page,
but it dictates every single way
we move and interact
each day and how the world
conducts business
without us,
without me,
and I sit here wondering what's wrong,
why can't I see
some words have used me
their appeal, too strong,
and I couldn't tell them
how wrong it'd be to follow
every move they make
leaving me stranded
abandoned
by my own mistakes.

It's hard to claw at the truth
when it hides, evades,
and no matter what you want
it just won't stay,
maybe it's supposed to be
impossible to find
cause I haven't taken the time
to stop reflecting
on such derelict
themes and open my eyes
to what's new to seize,
it means something
when you've closed yourself off
and every sound
every option
seems like another **** wall
and maybe
it's hard to know when
you're always told stop
instead of go.

Head pulsing; eight o'clock,
hair pulling has to stop,
burning purple, dull eyes,
barely breathing, sleep deprived,
drowning bodies cannot rest,
bandaged up,
what a mess;
pressure building and collapsing,
draining, lazy, and containing-
*nothing.

Where would I be,
had I decided my fate earlier?
Changing timelines,
feeling sadder,
or maybe not at all;
would my life be nothing
like it is now,
gunking up my flow,
like a wounded baby's crawl?

Would I even be myself?
(Or was I ever really?)
Could I remember how to feel?
(Other than just dreary?)
Should I even bother caring?
(When it calls to me so clearly?)

Well,
they say fate determines all,
others claim free will,
but have they considered
compromising skills?
Because I know I caused my path,
and I made it pre-determined,
as without my desires,
my future isn't certain.
So to question what my past
may have had to offer
is to question my own
mind, self, and author.

Preguntame por qué la luz no la hará brilla,
o de qué manera
los arboles encinar transformaron
a ceniza y polvo,
consumen en el fuego,
y por qué nadie oyendo los gritos del bosque
llegaron para pagar sus respetos.

Estas soldados de madera necesitaron lluvia,
como lágrimas a la faz de una viuda afligida,
para calmar las llamas,
entonces, tomaron gotas de agua para pacificar sus dolores,
y en la noche, cuando todos era silencio
ellos dormían en el viento sin ansia,
como es el estado natural para madre tierra.

English version:
Ask me

Ask me why the light won't shine,
or how
the oak trees transformed
into ashes and dust,
consumed in the fire,
and why no one, hearing the cries of the forest,
came to pay their respects.

These wooden soldiers needed rain,
like tears in the face of a grieving widow,
to calm the flames,
so, they took drops of water to pacify their pains,
and at night, when all was silent
they slept without anxiety in the wind,
as is the natural state for Mother Earth.

He knew the importance of words
and treated life like a crossword;
taking hints and context to places
that he never knew were possible,
solving them faster than his mind could keep,
he was full of it,
and every letter got him closer
to his dreams of entitlement.

Oh you've solved it, all right,
but his genius was limited,
nothing but words on a page;
The puzzles? He'd just skimmed it,
and each box became his defeat
for his words would no longer speak.

He could only solve the same book;
shoulders up, blamed his luck
on his limited palette,
maybe he'd done better if he invested
in a thing like vocabulary.

A forgotten mission, a new edition,
blew around in his mind,
but somehow he never could manage
to find the time
to understand these riddles' complexity,
and so to this challenge, *he'd flee.

You call me sunshine
and there are days I'd believe it,
but others I don't.

When my mind is so cloudy
I can't think at all
or when I process far too much
and it clashes in thunderous claps,
or when my tears block my view,
pouring, dribbling into its final trickle,
you say it.
How could you call me sunshine then?

You mean to say that behind all that,
nothing changes?
Surely an object cannot be an object if its properties change.

Yet you have the audacity to say otherwise,
that I can still be sunshine even when the night has fallen,
and the stars take my place,
because who else would illuminate the moon had it not been true?

So maybe I'll believe you.

Sweetheart,
I'm thriving.

It's impossible for our lips to meet,
just once,
without waiting for their next venture,
and how unreasonable it is
to stop
when your taste lingers:
unforgettable,
demanding,
and desirable.

Oh how I could never leave
your kiss of life,
enchanting,
as it draws me close,
our skin brushing against each other;
and how unforgiving it would be
to let such an organic touch die
without savoring its movements.

Let it be heard,
my love,
that I am truly living.

The thick, jet-black sky was teeming with stars,
each one twinkling to the beat of our hearts,
ba thump,
ba thump,
ba thump,
and danced when our hands trailed too close,
my frigid fingertips trailing across his hot palms,
trying timidly, feverishly, to reach equilibrium.

His tenacious coffee-brown eyes animated,
stirring at the very hint of my voice,
(a mere mouse squeak) as I looked away,
pawing at my arm, fidgeting my words
into mush in front of him,
letting them drop to the seat of the bench like
unfortunate jelly spilled at a picnic,
sticky and clumped, indecipherable,
languorously trailing from my lips
and dripping downward
to the cool-grey concrete slabs
bolstering us up among the night.

It was tedious.
He knew it would be
as he beamed back,
still watching my words flow
like molasses, so dense and viscous
they never came.

He kissed me.

Had I expected it,
I might've stopped him,
tried to make it more artificial,
more methodical, contracted,
mechanical, but I didn't.
I couldn't.

The feeling pressed through me
like a current,
an electric shock pulsing,
refusing to stop until it hit my core,
reverberating through my chest,
forcing my eyes open.

Taking advantage of this moment
he teased, knowing I couldn't speak,
not then,
not now,
not after this;
when I looked back at him,
his gaze was much calmer,
more delicate,
and his laughter floated off
like feathers.

I kissed him.

Why do I laugh instead of cry?
when things turn to dust,
when I've forgotten how to speak,
or when I've cut myself open,
when I'm barely able to see,
when I think I might not last,
or when I know things look bleak,
when my tears never go uninterrupted,
when they're coated in a roaring laugh,
why do I always manage to look up,
and stop myself from feeling so sad?

It's always been a struggle
to make my mind and soul agree,
and maybe that's how it's supposed to be,
but honey, let me tell you,
I've felt things that just didn't sit well,
and thought things that did,
and thought things that just didn't sit well,
and felt things that did,
but for once, sweetheart,
my two halves can agree,
cause I don't feel any dissent when I say,
you're the only one for me.

The first vision you ever had for me was blue,
albeit, a bit hazily speckled across my canvas,
sparsley separated from the rest of the daunting white,
but it wasn't enough.

You pondered it for a few minutes but thought better of yourself,
so you cleaned up the blue and added red instead.

Oh red, what a wonderous color,
but over the years you've diluted it to pink,
and that's okay, it suited me best anyway.

You couldn't be sure of your inital sketches,
lined in yellow across my sides,
and so you would work, rework,
and work again; and that was fine.

I've always found it funny,
you know,
how your pallette can be so so very small,
and yet create so many different works,
I wonder how you know which of us go together;
to line your halls with canvases, different and alike,
how are we to make such a satisfactory gallery?

Once, not too long ago,
I met a man, and I think you wrote him in green,
lathered the sides with a smooth ink,
and clumped, in oil, a bright orange near the bottom,
and I think he hopes no one notices the edge,
but I've always found it to be the most beautiful.

It's rather peculiar, really,
to see one color morph into another,
for a shape to become something much larger,
and to see the techniques mimicked in a chain,
a group of us, only linked by the initial movements,
brushed over so many times we might just forget.

Each of us,
a work of art,
separated only by years,
colors,
and life's rotations.

Why do I always stop?
Why do I hold my breath?

My mind is screaming to tell you everything.

How when it's quiet, and the lighting is just right, your hair shines in an almost golden brown halo at the top,
and how when you speak, the sound drifts off into a slight hum,
but when your eyes meet mine I cannot say it.

How when I think of you, I hide my face in my frigid hands and I feel my cheeks run hot with blood,
and how much I've always loved your determined face, with furrowed brows and pursed lips,
but instead I look at you with a meek, silent smile.

How I nearly tear up at the thought of my life leading up to this moment with you,
and that it makes up for every time I have ever felt afraid or broken,
but I never muster up the courage to tell you...

How the reason I always look at you is because I want to appreciate all of you, and I'm afraid I'll miss something,
and I wish I weren't so shy as to always write you love letters and poems, instead of verbalizing it to you,
but I always get stuck.

How I thought today twenty times over that I wished to say I love you,
and that I think your smirks might just **** me,
and maybe your hands are just feathers because they move so gracefully across the piano keys,
but I didn't mention it.

How could I?
I'm a never-ending trainwreck of the mouth.
Once I start, I can't finish; I'll never say it all.
So I don't.

But....
I want to.
I want to look you in the eyes and instead of fumbling with my hands, my ring, or looking down and away from you, I want to clearly say this...

How the only thought in my mind that kept me from shaking incessantly during an anxiety attack was you,
and how in the silence of my room I just knew life would get better, IS better,
and how you keep me from disrespecting myself,
and how I think I couldn't imagine a lifetime where I didn't meet you,
oh I couldn't, I wouldn't.

How the other day, when I was folding my clothes, I stopped.
I felt a rush of joy overcome me and I just didn't tell you, I couldn't even say it out loud to myself,
but **** it, I'm in love with you.

A warm tingling,
crawling up your spine,
yelling in your ears, your heart,
your mind,
and it keeps calling;
every part of your body,
a tense, hot, sizzling touch,
of your skin, yearning,
burning, soft lips leaning so close,
fingers curling, twitching,
sighing, and incessant noise ringing,
screaming, as you gaze into their eyes;
a coarse heat clumping in your throat,
keeping you entranced, captured,
wanting them now; forever.

Why is it that you always look so
colorful?

When you laugh so much
that your face flushes red,
when your pink shirt reflects in your cheeks,
or when you stand in the sun,
bathed by the orange-yellow, white,
light beaming off your brow in specks,
when you surround yourself in leaves
of greens, dark and not,
and when you lean in close
to your computer screen,
and the purple-blues bounce off your nose.

He'd always leave at 2:53 P.M.
Swoosh fwoump.

It was only a matter of time,
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-ti

I wanted to be free.

He'd strap me to a chair and whisper,
sweet stories that you'd coo to *a child,
with sour breath running down my neck,
his greasy forehead pressed against my tear-stricken cheeks;
it'd deteriorate and culture in my ears.

His scent engulfed my mind,
my body, my soul...

He made a grave mistake,
dressing me in grimy socks,
making me dance skin-to-skin,
forcing me to kiss him, call him.

Oh no, you see,
he should have known.

I betrayed his trust, I'd pay the price,
"Isn't that right, Leila?"
That's not my name.

"Now Leila, darling, you're going to be a good girl,
for Daddy, aren't you?"
That's not my name.

"Leila, sweetheart, I can trust you, can't I?
Hmm? This will be our little secret,"
That's not my name.

"Aw, don't tell me, dear, beautiful Leila,
you aren't scared, are you?"
That's not my name.

I knew him well,
after a few months,
and his smell was musty,
only when I let it be.

He always liked sweets,
like me.

He was disgusting,
and my wrists ran red with incisions;
he'd lick them clean.

He'd always leave at 2:53.

"Oh Leila, sweetheart, I expect dinner when I get back,
won't you be a good girl,
and do as Daddy taught you?"
That's not my name.

So I did.

This kitchen was charming,
as much as his worn dining ware,
lined with cracked roses painted by Chinese overseas,
wondering when they would be used.

This was the first time I'd seen him genuinely smile,
"You look especially beautiful, tonight, Leila,
perhaps it's the sparkle in your eye,"
That's not my name.

He took a sip.

His glossy eyes hovered above his glass,
and his gaze drifted over to me,
in my grimy socks and brown-stained apron,
my long, dark hair drapped over my shoulders.

Another glass,
another glass,
another glass,
glass,
sugary sweet,
sweet,
down his lips,
lips,
lips,
teeth,
throat,
liver.

He liked sweets,
sweets,
sweets,
dripping, sipping,
sweet,
sugary sweet, nectar,
cool, smooth,
antifreeze.

He'd always leave at 2:53.

Silence.
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-ti-

2:53 P.M.

Silence at 2:00-
2:00
2:00

I'd heard him cry,
"Leila, Leila, Leila,"
That's not my name.

He'd always leave at 2:53,
2:00,
silence.
He would never leave at 2:53,
2:53 P.M.

*I left at 2:53. Silence.

It's so unfair to us roses,
truly,
to be admired by every passing glance,
but what of our desires?

It is only fair we get a chance,
to peruse among such lovely sights,
and instead of glorifying our petals,
we could take fascination in your image.

What are the chances,
a woman like me,
so obsessed with flowers,
branches and leaves,
finds something so beautiful,
so lovely pressed against my chest,
so intoxicating,
that without another thought,
I had to have him too?

You’d think when people made crackers,
They wouldn’t shatter,
But here we are,
Early hours of the morning,
Eating defective crackers,
With cheese, salsa, and laughter,
Cause these pseudo-chips are mocking me,
And the entire row keeps breaking,
But it’s okay,
Because even when things seem to fall apart,
We’re always there together,
Picking up the crumbs,
And making things better.

That neighbor of yours is a sunflower stealer,
No doubt about it,
And I think they made a grave mistake,
Picking flowers like that,
Because they missed the most beautiful one of them all,
You know,
Because when they picked them, they let you go.

Dance with me and pay the price,
it's no big deal, the music's nice,
a twirl, a tap, why won't you glide?
I promise not to hurt your pride.

My heels click and stomp about,
your feet intact, without a doubt,
but something cracks, between us both,
a shattered, silent, bond-broken oath.

My smiles full of blind deceit,
your trust denied in fast defeat,
I've grown tired of this masquerade,
now you wish you hadn't stayed?

I can't believe you thought you'd be my match,
that we'd make it out without a scratch,
but jokes on you, and me too,
this was our final dance, so enjoy the view.

Darling, your touch, elegant,
like a soft petaled flower,
transfixes me in place,
and your scent drives me mad.

Warm sweet tastes,
like nectar, sugar drops,
trail across my skin.

Those flavors, refreshing,
like honeysuckle on a Summer afternoon,
bold and vibrant like the Sun,
coat my lips like morning dew.

My heart flutters,
like a hummingbird, fast,
and the only thought tormenting me,
is the desire to relive it again.

Dear Mama, you taught me well,
but that's something I'd never tell,
cause complacency is what you preached,
so silence is what I reached.

Mama, you taught me well,
to sit and fiddle, do not wail,
but my emotions are worth much more,
when they aren't hidden behind the door.

Mama, you taught me well,
wishing for naught, I let myself dwell,
and so I idolized all the wrong people,
and followed demands like sheeple.

Mama, you taught me well,
to allow myself to mask my yell,
my tears, my frigid fears, my feelings unspoken,
when my heart lay here so broken.

Mama, you taught me well,
to lock myself into my own cell,
and now I feel I need release,
my soul deserves to be at peace.

Dear Mama, you taught me well,
but this sort of life I wish to quell,
and so I say I must change,
your lessons to me, estrange.

The river's current starts slow,
chilled streams trickling,
toes shifting, in the dark blue-gray;
almost unpleasant to the touch.

As she wades, the pull becomes stronger;
ice cold, it entraps her chest.

Slwoosh fwssh, she winces as the wind picks up,
and her mind goes still; resilient.

Drifting, her body gives way,
fwuomp, pssshhh.
Almost lifeless do her eyes wash,
away into the water's murk.

Like a ship stranded at sea,
her body struggles to withstand,
water filling her lungs like the hull;
her cheeks pale and wet.

Gasps break the water,
sending ripples as wide as her eyes,
and the tormenting storm laughs;

Each time it moves, grabs, without asking, takes without giving,
and she floats.

Your heart moves like a pendulum,
the weight of the blood carrying;
as it beats, sways, and springs.

Ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump; swing.

The sound of your cuckoo-clock heart rings,
resonates, in my ears, and the vibrations echo in my mind;

your eyes blink, tick tock tick tock.

Ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump; swing.

Our eyes lock, whispers linger,
as our breaths synchronize to your metronome;
our feet fumble, tip tap tip tap,
and our time becomes lost in the sound:

Ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump; swing.

You've finally caught me.

We've raced for years, but never touched.

Your sister, envy, had grazed my cheeks every now and again, but you're far more devious.

You don't burn like her,
you sour; your energy collides,
collapses, into a bitter liquid.

As soon as we met, I wanted to escape,
but your mischevious glint held me,
and every thought against my will sprouted forth.

You infected me.

You took my rational mind and crushed it,
you twisted my trust, tainted my love,
and now I have to face you.

You're not like your sister,
and I'll be ****** to let you stay,
craddling me like a small child,
listening to your fallacious tales.

I'm better than that,
so the next time you see me,
tell you and your sister goodbye.

I drowned all my memories of you,
and let them drift to the bottom;
sea foam bubbled as you sank, and the thick green froth gurbbled when you plunged-
into the abyss, my cavern of exile.

I had to **** you so I could live;
but the fish, too, became intoxicated,
and so they were gone; crushed coral littered your descent into the black ink, to the places my mind won't reach.

My feet placed firmly, barefoot, caloused, in the chilled sands of time,
watched the water go still, and the sounds of life, birds, and the wind ceased, all the while the salty smell of defeat rest across the monotone blue.

I had to **** you.

"Afraid of heights? Don't be silly,"
the hard metal only grazes the sky,
it's nothing, don't you worry.

I'd have never guessed you'd take me up there, where,
I could reach the stars, with wind flushed cheeks, hair flying,
and your crooked teeth smiling back.

The moon was such a bright white,
and your laughter set in motion a part of me I had never felt,
and this exhiliration broke the heavens,
us both staring in wonder and excitement.

Don't be afraid of heights he said to the small(er) middle school me,
and had I known he would look so...
magical mixed in with the night,
I would have never tried to say no.

A smile so large, I think my heart leaps,
pulsing so fast to the loud hums and taps;
it can't take the rush.

My jaw locks, a warm, twangy bite;
with my eyes so wide, I'd gasp,
but my breath hides, trapped behind,
and no amount of gulps can free me.

February, you sing,
as the smallest (month), together we ring.

I suppose it was only fair,
that I fall in love like this,
my birthday, and your holiday,
we always have to share.

Although mine creeps before,
avoiding the martyr of your Saint,
and I know that it still kills me,
as I patiently drift upon your shore.

Sweet twos, you and I,
together we strive, linked by the stars,
and I think, perhaps, my soul admits,
I'm never ready to say goodbye.

I look at you, and I feel the wind;
the leaves swirl in colors I can't remember.

And for a moment, I believe it.

Leaves for a second, a chilled frost overcomes us;
and you're gone,
but the wet, browned pallet, hollowed by time, remains,
taunting me.