It's not poetry unless it's spilling out of your mouth.
The only words I wanna read are the ones your hands wrote.
The only mind I want to be taught by is the one inside of you.

If only besos could fuel this old Pontiac
Then again,
Even then I'd probably still run out of gas

When I was younger, my dream was to make it to Australia, move there and build a life. I always thought this small Louisiana town was where I was born, but not where I belonged; Canberra was where my real heart and home was.
I met someone.
But that person sneezes and coughs the polluted air around here too.
Lately, it seems the 17 hour time difference isn't far enough from this dusty place I still haven't gotten away from.
Maybe if we could travel light-years, we'd finally be home.
I know he gets close sometimes, in his head.
I can see the distance and I can imagine the world he's built, with waves and petals and jasper, and you can feel the clean and rhythmic pulsing of the atmosphere and the creatures there all roam free and take care of others in need,
the words never linger on the tip of tongues, rather they spill out in poetic truth and your head was always feather-like and the all knowing man in the sky was the one inside your own vessel, and you worried not about what you had to do to keep your pockets full but the simplest form of survival and the currency was smiles
and it didn't matter if there was a slight gap in your teeth or if you ever had morning breath, because it is all so beautiful, so perfect.
It is a dream.

I often wonder if my idea of the place he'd rather be is anything like the one he actually desires.
I wonder if he'd take me with him to this Utopia, had he had the chance to go.
I wonder if, in this perfect paradise, it would be my hand in his.

• (1) pencil
• (1) laptop charger
• (1) small t-shirt
• (∞) dust bunnies
• (2) socks that did not make a matching pair
• (2) lighters, one with an eyeball and the other abstract colors that you said if the Bic lighter company had asked me to design a lighter it would look something like
• (1) fallen rose petal and
• (1) pair of pants with my
• (1) pair of underwear still tangled in them from the way you took them off.

I don't drink white chocolate + caramel lattes, but tonight, I did.
And I put hella whipped cream on it like you asked
and I cried with each swirl: the cup, the espresso inside the cup, the little tulip I made from whole milk, the spiral handled spoon, the can of whipped cream, a fluffy spiral staircase right into the feels.
I took two sips and set it down because there was work to do and smiles to fake but I won't pretend I didn't microwave it later and finish it to the last drop because I knew you would
and I just wanted to pretend that you were there at that counter, caring about every twirl I made behind the bar, like a captain of the ship, as you wrote poetry in bars with every steamy sip.
But you weren't and I'll learn that no matter how hard I try, I just can't do white chocolate + caramel lattes.
You're the only way I want to drink anything these days.
But that's the only way you'll drink it.

I'm dipping my paint brushes in my flower's water hoping the natural beauty will leak onto the canvas in the form of your wilting lashes and withering affection
because as tortuous as it is for me to watch the slow growth of your apathy, watching the spread of stems, sunflowers and red little buds that I'm not sure the name of, sitting in a mason jar on my coffee table, somehow manages to  romanticize it enough for me to look at the roots being planted and see the leaves come autumn. If only I could use these tiny tips accurately to articulate how I feel in detail, so that I didn't have to use this tiny voice who always uses the wrong tone to convey how I feel to you. Maybe then you could read the painting instead of my face to know that I'm decaying too.

But perhaps I'm not the flower, I'm the vase that holds it.
Or the "not-quite-a-vase-but-it's-the-only-thing-I-could find" that holds on to you.

I find I have so much to say and never the composure to say it.
You should know what you do hurts.
But I'll let you use me because it creates the illusion that I'm wanted.

While you were reading "the Word" in that hotel room in new mexico or California or wherever the ******* slept with her that night, you should have been looking up passages on forgiveness or some other godly, holier-than-though horseshit that's supposed to make you into a better person.

I don't need a bible to tell me that what you did was wrong and I definitely don't need one to tell me that I should forgive you.
Because despite the horrific time we spent together, I know it wasn't all your fault. I've learned to forgive not only you, but also myself.

I don't need an angel to pull me out of depression. I don't need an angel to tell stories to of every glorifying good deed I've done in my life to get me into the gates of Heaven. I don't need Satan telling me I'm too good for Hell because let's face it: none of us really are.

I hope you know that when people ask about you, I tell them how lovely you are, that you're genuinely a good person who's dealt with more struggles than she deserves, who I treated poorly when she deserved her feet washed and her presence bowed to.

So when you tell those same people that I'm a pathological liar,
perhaps maybe you're right.

But I'm not lying when I say, I hope for happiness in your head.
I hope one day you don't feel the burning need to fill others' with pity for you and hatred for anyone you feel is against you,
that burning desire you have to destroy yourself so you throw everyone else into the furnace? Yeah. You know the story.

I hope you know I loved you, I loved you, I loved you.
I hope you know I never wish I hadn't.
I hope you believe yourself when you say that I'm a liar so that none of this makes you feel an ounce better about yourself.

In Jesus name I pray,
Amen.

I loved her because she made me a morning person; we'd wake up and make peanut butter banana toast and have days to spend together before night fell.
I love him because he makes sleeping in until noon feel productive, his soft sleepy breath like an oxygen tank, and when he pulls me close, I no longer feel the freezing air around me. My blanket of yellow and blue flowers isn't nearly as warm as his precious hands, the tapestry he covered the window with blocks the wrong source...
I love him because even at noon, when the sun is directly overhead, beaming its brightest and fighting to be the center of attention, he makes darkness feel like heaven and I swear I could sleep forever.

It is odd for one to wish
to have skin made of crystals in order to captivate your interest,
an aroma that fills the air and lingers, so that an opened door tilts the head back,
a hazy effect on the mind and thought processes that leaves the thinker in awe of his own self,
to know one's worth, how much per gram of soul
and to appreciate their craving and need for you to be in the palm of their hand, or rolled up and inhaled euphorically.
It is odd for a flower to wish she were a ****, however, some gardens aren't meant to be watered, rather, they are destined to become forest fires.

"Do you remember when you used to love me?"
"Of course, I never stopped."
"I'm so happy to see you...I'm so happy you're here...I'm so happy to see you."
Hunched over pools of pink on the concrete I used a bar napkin to dab your tears.

You looked up at me on the dark street and I saw a lamb in those droopy eyes.
You looked up at me from white sheets and I saw Vegas in your smile.

How do you throw the good away at the chance of something better?
What if the grass is filled with snakes and glass on the otherside?
What if I'm scared?
What if the risk ends up not being worth it?
What if what is good is good enough?

you had multiple options, at first there were so many open doors in front of you, but the longer you waited, the more started closing, until only one was left open in front of you, so reluctantly, you walked in, better than being stuck out there alone, with only a hint of what could be lying behind the door you stepped into.
I understand.
If you happen to get cabin fever, I hope you know that the door isn't locked. And there is no water outside, keeping you here.
If you need to get a breath of fresh air, I hope you know that I will smile with each inhale if you are happier there.

I know your soul is drenched and the water keeps rising inside of you.
I know you're worried about your lungs filling up and your veins exploding from the pressure and your brain floating around in your skull.
But I know the worst pain is still in your heart, the only part that's dry, cracking and swelling and pumping too hard.
But you're not the flood, you're not the cause of it, and you're definitely not the destruction caused by it.
You're a great swimmer, with long flowing red hair, eyes like the ocean and a smile like the sun, rising beautifully and brightly at the end of a long storm.
You're the help, the relief, the last bit of hope.
Let the water wash away the heartbreak, the anxiety, the sorrow.
Let it revitalize you.
Let it be the end of an exhausting era, and the start of a serene one.

Somethings different in my head, somewhere along the road of growing up, something changed. I'm not sure when and I definitely don't know exactly what it was that switched and sent me into this intense spiraling, the strangest sensation in my cranium.
you know how when something is spinning so quickly it appears to be standing still?
it's not thoughts.
I wish I could still concentrate on or articulate those things.
Sometimes my head feels like a hive, thousands of swarming bees buzzing, worried only about their honey, when something comes along and shoves a fist inside, grabs a handful, and leaves the bees in a vehement and mettlesome rage. Exasperated and feeling defeated, but determined to please their queen, they never stop.
It never stops.
It never stops.

It grinds it's teeth. It yells "listen to me, do what I say," it yells.
It hardly ever sleeps, and when it does it only dreams of hands reaching - grabbing, jutting out from very direction,
desperately hoping to find something to hold on to.

God, it must be a magic trick, how you can make lights from pollution seem like the city beyond golden gates, the windows down, scarlet curls of frizz illuminated.
I was jealous of the shotgun, and you asked me if I had a good view, and the only answer I could think of was that I didn't, at least, not of you.
Four seasons later and I'm back in the backseat of your car, it's summer again, only this time everything is different.
You still somehow manage to summon the small hidden youth I've got left in this old soul, even though the roads are blocked and sirens are on patrol.

Perhaps I'm awful at keeping a steady rhythm because I'm terrified of what note the future holds - it's so unpredictable, constantly changing and shifting and shaping.
never knowing exactly what or when whatever "what" is, will happen makes me hesitate on how I will react.
Every time I think I'm on the upbeat I'm reminded that life is not always a perfectly composed song.

I'm trapped in a relationship with a man who doesn't love me

I can't remember the last time I was called beautiful or intelligent or felt as if he found me endearing

Im watching the moon and the waves are crashing into the sand and I want to swim as far as I can

I want to show him how far out I'd swim to show him I'd drown for the love I gave to him

But he's not here
He's upstairs in the hotel room
But he's probably not even there.

You were sitting at my counter, scribbling pages upon pages upon a little lined yellow notepad, passionate words about Christ and freedom and some bible verse from John, perhaps?
I didn't get to read much of it at all, and I'm not sure I really would have felt it as intensely as you did, but I did attempt to read you, from the corner of my eye while stirring cream into a cup of coffee. You were looking down at your words, his words, and had your headphones in, probably listening to either 90s r&b; or Bon Iver, (pronounced by you exactly how it's spelled), and you smiled as you slipped your fingers into the tiny bag of chocolate covered espresso beans I offered to share with you.

The shop was empty but the room felt full with laughter as we shared stories of our high school selves and embarrassing traits and things we thought we loved long ago.

You turned an exhausting evening into endearing emotions.
In case I don't see you before you leave for your "missionary opportunities,"
Thank you.
Good luck in Florida.

I DONT KNOW WHAT IT IS ABOUT YOU
OR ME
OR US
OR WHATEVER IT IS
THAT MAKES ME FEEL LIKE MILLIONS OF PIECES OF MATTER IN THE UNIVERSE HAVE EACH OF MY HANDS TUGGING IN OPPOSITE DIRECTIONS WHEN IM AWAY FROM YOU
LIKE IM IN MULTI PARALLEL WORLDS
LIKE ITS TRYING TO TELL ME TO GIVE YOU SOME SPACE
AND ITS NOT LETTING ME FATHOM WHAT ON EARTH THAT EVEN IS
LIKE NO OTHER LIFE EXISTS OUTSIDE OF THIS WORLD -
OUR WORLD
LIKE YOU LIVE IN A WORLD WHERE I DONT
HELLO
I AM ALIVE
I AM HERE
AND I NEED YOU HERE TOO
AND I DONT KNOW WHY
BUT I DO
CAN YOU HEAR ME

A pair of reading glasses I've never seen before sit perched on the counter, singing with that angelic voice I've heard before.
The coffee in my mug starts to swirl.
I have to set it down.
I have to take my flannel off.
I have to look away.

sleep comes most easily with draped limbs like closed curtains
with no room for sunlight to leak through
it is dark here, yes, but the sun has burnt out all the while
I was dreaming of no longer being a demanding lover

I try to be good to you, especially when I cannot be to myself.
I will try to love you most in the times that I cannot feel it.

since when did Seasonal Depression decide that summertime sadness is the new thing
the sun stares down at me as i trudge around blindly and i feel my body melting like a snowball onto the concrete under my bare feet
i have no desire to do anything with the time off that she has given me
and my mother bothers me with questions because i spend so much time inside silently next to her
she spends every day plugged into the living room couch
and my niece is growing older and bolder and her attitude reflects mine most of the time
i want to scream
i want to rip your hair from your scalp
i want to sink my teeth into something
maybe sanity huh
ha

self-deprecating thoughts have not plagued me for some time now
but i feel them creeping up on me like spiders in the night
like crying in front of you for the first time in ages and not being able to stop
like really crying, the tears burning as they rolled down my cheeks
and I couldn't tell you why and you just looked at me puzzled
like the realization that I didn't want you on top of me and you slowly retreating
and i couldn't tell you why and i just looked at you puzzled

I don't deserve you or your kindness or your kisses
You don't deserve my sharp passive aggressive remarks or reminders
You deserve a second of breath and I don't deserve the seconds you give to me

you may hear both sides of a story
but you believe the side of the one you love
and my dear, you've loved each chapter.
and as much as you might wish
you'd never read those words,
they still ring inside of you
but you skipped the epilogue,
which confessed that both sides are true;
it is possible that the hero is also the villain,
and the angel also the demon,
and the sweetest caramel skin masochistic,
and the ivory wristed sadistic.
And the fire that had engulfed them both at one time
was the reader, with much to learn.
Because with pleasure came so much pain,
caused by each of us to the other,
and for that I almost wish I never touched her,
but I am more than thankful that a part of her touched me,
for I too once was just a reader, with much to learn.
And I read of a flower who cracked the strongest concrete,
I was afraid that I might have killed it,
so I left the bud there, to blossom under another's water and sunlight,
for I have much to learn on the art of forgiveness of others and oneself and the art of suffering in silence.
Let her teach you something. Let her whisper oxygenated truths into your ear and believe that it is all true, because it is, to her and to me and to you.

Don't worry;
no ones got palms like yours babe
I've only got eyes for you these days
I'm bleeding from my ankles
like the man in that story with thorns in his feet but I'd preach my belief in you anyway
You know I'd lie at your feet and wash them any day.
Just promise that you won't turn out to be Judas, that it's not in your blood to betray
Don't worry, even then I'd forgive you if you at least promised me you'd stay

a lackadaisical lifestyle is not ideal for a daisy
who desires to sing lullabies to dreaming lovers
who longs to grow taller and smaller with a sip of sincerity
instead of saccharine goodbyes
if only time travel were not impossible
to see if this rabbit-hole i am stuck in leads to a lavish garden in the end
then i could decide if waking up were the right direction
or if patience would be rewarded in this Lacklusterland

I'm not sure what it means but I notice the difference in how we used to fall asleep together smiling and open our eyes in the morning like our faces never moved throughout the night, compared to the now cold backs against each other and restless sighs when we see the sunlight.
I'm not sure what it means

despite what you may think
this soul is still janglin
danglin
on the edge
of running towards your closed palms
when I know they will not open for me
I know you'll leave me hangin
or at least I hope you will

Do you know how badly I wanted to sing you a lullaby with my body on that restless Wednesday morning, when it seemed that sleep was impossible for your tired mind?
To lightly and slowly kiss down your torso, to softly hum against you, hypnotizing your heart to decelerate and your breath to deepen and eyes grow heavy in hopes of dreaming.
But I didn't.
Not because of the fear of rejection, I'm past that.
Just the avoidance of it.

I feel it building up in me
brick by maddened brick
I felt it breaking down in me
break by bothered break

Slow it down
Soften it up
Let vines grow and make their way through the cracks in the walls and shatter the confinements around you
Let the vines sprout violet soft velvet petaled petunias
Stop and find them
Stop and smell them
Stop and touch them
Stop and study them
Stop and learn how they got that way
Stop and get that way

Feel it growing inside of you
seed by watered seed

I don't want you to think of me when I'm gone if it hurts to reminisce.
File the details in the back of your mind and please don't pull them out in fear of forgetting them, for they will only feed the already heavy heart.
In a few weeks, or months, or whenever you're ready, really ready,  I'll have them here for you to read and recollect.

I always freaked out when you licked my face and nostrils and tried to kiss my armpits and toes, but secretly enjoyed the attention and slight aggravation because i knew one day all of it would end, so I tried not to overreact every time in case you decided to actually stop for good. I knew I'd miss it when it was gone.

I liked to shower with the lights off but you had to let me get in first.

I loved your shoulders and wrists and rubbing them softly through the night with my fingertips.

I tried to cuddle you every second i could but i think I put off so much body heat it was hard for you to sleep.

I watched all of the Kevin Gates and Logic interviews because i knew you wanted me to be interested in them because you were.

I wanted to take you to see the ocean and every sunset.

I didn't mind holding your hand and the steering while at the same time, although i wished sometimes i could nap in the passenger seat or be the one shoving fries into your mouth at midnight.

I drank every bottle of wine you bought for me and saw the conscious love in that simple gesture.

I wanted more than you could give, more than anyone could, more than i could give myself.

I wanted nothing more than to be able to love you and for you to love me back in the same way.

I was insecure and worried that I wouldnt ever live up to the first idea you had of me.

I love you. I don't want you to leave. But I will feel so pathetic if I fight for something I know you don't want anymore. I am trying to make this easy although it is killing me.

I wonder how long you've been waiting for an excuse to leave me..
I wonder if she is worth throwing it all away with me. I hope so. Genuinely.
I wonder if she is even the reason.
Maybe I was just too clingy, too needy, too crazy, too much to put up with.  
I hope that if she is the reason, there is longevity in your relationship.
It would hurt even worse if I let you go and you still were unhappy.

The thought of you not wanting me anymore breaks me.

Your kiss on my shoulder through my soft denim shattered me.
I ran away, like I always do, and I sliced my foot open and it still took everything in me not to turn around and run to you.
I even tried, I almost made it, but I turned around again.
I will not fight someone who won't fight back.
.

Have you ever heard the story about the girl who started counting seconds between the lighting and the thunder, to see how far away the rain was?

We sat there, two weathered minds, on the wooden swing chained to your porch,
the delicate wind chimes were at war with the tumultuous thunder.
The little metal pipes singing, begging us not to speak.
The explosions in the sky shouting, demanding us to yell even if in comparison our voices were weak.

Maybe it was the tension between us, sitting so close yet so far, not a single space of skin touching, that cracked the sky with white lines.
Maybe it was the shaky thoughts in our heads that rattled the house the way it did.


I don't remember the name of the story, or how it went really.
All I know is that I was singing quietly to the rain and I realized that I stopped counting the seconds between me and you.

im not saying i need you but
my headaches get worse when you're not around and the creases in my chapped lips taste slightly bloodier than the cracks of my knuckles and my nails are rugged and angled from my crooked teeth gnawing at the chipped cerulean paint
and i know i always say cerulean wrong because i was never taught how to
and i know i'm clingy and i might love wrong but please forgive me

i was never taught how to

When I was a kid, and all of my friends were kids, and all of us kids lived down the same street that I still live on as a not kid that none of my kid friends still live on as not kids, there was a day in the summer, or the spring....
my not kid brain has a hard time conjuring up my kid thoughts, I just remember walking outside and it was so hot
And we fetched our bikes from the shed and walked them to the blacktop only to find the greatest gift nature could bring us: a thousand tiny caterpillars crawling on the road. We couldn't ride our bikes in the street or we would squish them so we dropped them where we stood and did the only thing we knew we should: ran inside and asked mama for the ziplock bags and collected as many as we could. We thought we were saving them from any cars that might need to go down our dead end road. We didn't know what to do with them so we kept them in the bag and left them in my kid friends parents living room, sealed tight so nothing could get to them.
The next morning we went to check on them and the bag was empty.

Looking back now, I realize we probably deprived them of oxygen, starved them of nutrients and space, and probably separated them from their families.

I feel bad about that, but that's not the point. The reason I am recalling this memory and putting it into words is because I've had an epiphany.
They were robbed a chrysalis, they never flew away as beautiful butterflies.
They slept overnight in a bag with many others, waiting to puddle and flutter before they chewed their way through plastic or they died.

What we did as kids to those caterpillars, it's how I love..
Sometimes I find caterpillars in the pits of people's stomachs and my intrigue is spiked like a child's with wonder, but I always pluck the caterpillars before they get too far..

Maybe I'm a secret sleepwalker and I unconciously let them go.
I sure hope so.

try not to cry while reading the words someone once wrote about you and try not to cry thinking about how they don't flow that way anymore...

It all started with a dream dictionary, and then a mixtape, and then attendance recovery because neither of us ever went to school.
And then we thought it ended with a graduation cap.
we tried so many times but it never worked out for some reason. I thought the universe must have been conspiring against me…
But somehow perhaps the universe ended up on my side, and she gave me you.
You've given me a long life in the short period of time we've been together and it's been one hell of an adventure.
I'm not sure how it really will end.
Or if the universe really is on my side. If not, at least she'll be against US this time. Because I don't belong in a world where I don't end up with you, and I'm so glad we live in the one where we do.
It's been a dream.

I can't remember the last time I frantically searched for a sharp object in my sentimental clutter, or the time that I drove out into the middle of nowhere, searching for trees that I knew would end everything.
I remember the feeling, of madness and chaos and desperation,
but sometimes it feels like a feeling I never really felt;
only read or heard about.
But I do remember it.
And sometimes, in moments of desperation and chaos and madness, I have the urge to drive back to those secluded woods, just to make sure there are no crosses with floral wreaths dug into the dirt.
But I don't.
I drive to the familiar home I've made my niche, decorated with sticky noted "I love you's" and laundry on leather sofas, with extravagant floral wreaths hung on the brightly lit porch instead, and I find comfort in the fact that this is the place where I can finally rest my head.
So do things get better?
Well, yes and no.
Yes, I still drink alcohol,
but these days I sip it rather than shoot it,
and some days I'll take a few short drags of the cigarette I've been smoking on for the last few weeks,
but I don't chain-smoke them like I used to,


and these days, I always wear my seatbelt and get back "I love you too."

I'm so ******* tired of chasing after you
My feet hurt
Run to me

Do not tell me "pretty girls don't cry"
I'm not a pretty girl.
And I'm allowed to cry when I feel hurt.
Take your superficial ******* injected phrases and shove them up your ***.
I bet pretty girls don't say **** like that either.

the worst feeling is the one when writing is the only release you've got but you've got writers block and you can't conjure the words that explain the emptiness behind your thoughts
the word indescribable cancels itself out and you're left wondering if writing on cave walls sharpens or disintegrates the rock.
I wish I could find the words to tell you that I can't sleep at night, not even under your sheets and Christmas lights, and I'm not sure why. I wish I could find the words to tell you that I never have energy or motivation or an appetite.
I wish I could find the words to tell you that I miss your passion and affection and the inspiration you used to spark inside of me. And even more so the words to tell you that I think you misplaced those things, like your wallet and dollar bills and lighters.
I'm searching under couch cushions for cheek kisses and creative lyrics about the sparks I lit inside of you.
Maybe you didn't lose them though. Maybe I lost the fire.
Maybe I'm the small fireworks at ten pm and you're midnight on New Years Eve.
Maybe you need a bigger flame.
I want you to have that.
I want to be that, but the only words I can think of to tell you are that I've found damp coals in my soul and I don't know how to replace them with new ones.
I wish I had words.
These words are hollow.
Which makes sense because that's all I've felt lately.
I hope you continue to love me when I'm nothing but hollow eyes and dark circles and collar bones.
I hope I can continue to love you in the right way with this skeleton but I feel weaker knees failing me already.
Show me how to float like you do.
Show me how to fly and light on fire.
Let me be midnight with you.
I need to be midnight or I won't make it until then.

That last sentence has so much meaning behind it and I wish I could find the words to explain the symbolism or intensity of it.
I wish I could find words so I could stop with the repetition but I'm just repeating myself.

Where do you go when you can't go home and you don't know the backroads well enough to absentmindedly navigate your way out of your mind?
Can someone show me a map with a route that has the most frequent red lights and stop signs?
What does it mean when it aches to see that every green light you approach won't turn gold?
How does it feel to loathe the silence between you and yourself?
It feels like this.
It feels like flipping an hour glass over and over but the sand is stuck to the top
Like the digital clock on the dash is always seventeen minutes faster at each tick and turn of the tiny green digits
Like the four note church bell chimes at the cemetery forever
Like the CD is scratched and keeps skipping but it only repeats the same line over and over

Home is wherever I'm with you
Home is wherever I'm with you
Home is wherever I'm with you
Home is wherever I'm with you

Like the CD is 80 minutes of the same song straight
Like everyone sings about home or going there or asking to be taken there or defining what it is to them but you still can't find where it is for you.


Like the gas tank is full but the battery is dead
Like the sharp curves of the asphalt just take you in circles and you can't find the exit to the roundabout
Like there are no curves and the road goes on forever and all you get are green lights blinding you but all you can ******* see is red

I can't shake these dreams that wake me with salt in my mouth and puddles on his chest
I wouldn't stray far enough into the dark to call them nightmares
I won't dare call them out by name
I'll go deep enough to whisper that they make embers glow again but I'll close my eyes before I scream at the moon or the corpses I'm lying next to
I'll wander hesitantly through the dates again but I won't admit that my mind might as well be buried with them
Am I in my head or in the coffin
Maybe the one I used to sleep on remains unmarked only because it's waiting for me to finally get some rest
Or maybe I just need to hold my peace I guess

Most nights I do not have to suffer the silence of showers in solitude
I am usually blessed with the sensation of the feeling of my fingers catching the puddles of water
drop by drop
that roll off of your torso,
like the hungry in a dumpster
like a lamb and a lion
like an 8 year old trying to grasp the difference between a metaphor and a smilie
like searching for the last dandelion of the season
eager and starving for it

I battle the drops spilling into my eyes to meet your grimace, teeth bared and eyes shut tight, as they win the war on your front, cascading down your lashes and curls and nose and jawline.
Even in this state, you look delicate and beautiful.
I've always said you were a work of art, a painting, a statue.
Like a sculpture on a frieze on the Parthenon. Or at least a roman marble copy.
Or at least you make me look at you that way.
I always slyly look up in hopes that you're returning the gaze when I'm not looking...
That's when I lose the war, with drops cascading down my lashes, and my curls, and my nose and collar bones.

Tonight your chest was bare and maybe you finally conquered the water
But tonight I'm showering with the lights off, under the distortion of the glow of pink lava ebbing and flowing from behind the curtains and I don't care if I'm alone or standing in an army of soldiers
I don't care if I win or lose
I'll let the stream rush over the contours of my face and mold it until it becomes a grimace or agonized or etched into wry
like it once did the very ground I walk upon and I'll let the steam fog the mirrors and leave dew drops on my shoulders until my bare chest turns scarlet and I crawl into the covers forced into silence

I'll try not to forget the first time I felt you looking at my white shoes and gold shirt and the way i tried to hide my rosy cheeks each time my eyes scanned the gym to find yours meeting my gaze from across the court. I'll try not to forget the way you got nervous when I showed interest and how you wanted to hold my hand but couldn't. I'll try not to forget how desperately you wanted to kiss me in attendance recovery but couldn't. I'll try not to forget how many times you watched 500 Days of Summer in my absence and all 500 similarities you contrived between that pretty girl with the heart shaped tattoo on the bike in the elevator on the rooftop and the one standing in front of you with a hidden scar down her chest flowers in her hair a crooked smile.
Ill try not to forget how many times you tried to be my friend because I told you that was what I wanted and how many times you couldn't bear that. I'll try not to forget the time you walked to my house in the dark just to read words in the dictionary on a mattress with me.

I'll try to forget the days when those words transformed into the absence of them.

I'll try not to forget the books we found at the flea market and the plant soil you spilled in my car and the talks we had late at night in your driveway and the fear of your mother finding out you were with a girl. I'll try not to forget the difference between sesame and teriyaki chicken because I always thought both looked disgusting but they made you happy so I appreciated them. Ill try not to forget the first night I slept in your bed and the innocently hesitant neck kisses. I'll try not to forget the night you desperately wanted to kiss me- and then desperately kissing you.
And how bad it was,
but how it made the sun shine brighter in that dark room than it ever has outside at noon.
I'll remember intimate conversations and the first time I told you I loved you and the way you didn't believe me and the months we spent not sure of what we wanted and how that uncertainty faded as the warm weather did and how the cold no longer comes from the winter but from the absence of your smile when I wake
I'll remember what you said about absence and this time I'll agree with you; absence makes the heart full and fond and full of longing, not hollow.

I'll remember the start in hopes of never having to try to forget an ending.

This morning I woke up smiling.
I kissed your cheeks.
Every tiny thing about you inspires me to write stanzas,
But who wants to read a poem entirely based on the way your face scrunches up in the shower, exposing your pearly whites while you grab loose strands of knots from the suds of conditioner
Or how in awe I am at the sight of the beautifully constructed transition of your chest to your neck and how I envision maroon little passions marks along it every time I stare at your throat vibrating when you speak, and your strong hands on my shoulders, hips, everything.
The way you smile seductively to get what you want and how I never thought you'd be that good at making my knees weak enough to buckle and bow down and give you every thing and every part of me I can muster up or hold in the palms of my tiny hands.
(I actually teared up today while looking at you but you don't know that because I was hogging the water and your eyes were closed.
For a moment I thought you must be the physical embodiment of the perfect human polykelitos wrote an entire novel and carved an entire bronze sculpture trying to create and bring to life.

-----

This morning I woke up and you were smiling. You kissed my cheeks. You told me you liked my cheeks. You gave me butterfly kisses and butterflies in my stomach and you left little maroon passion marks along my neck.

I don't think my body has ever felt more euphoric.
We fit together like Tetris.
Your body felt sacred.
Our passion was electric,
both of our souls pure and naked
just like the Greeks and then Romans painted.
Sometimes I feel like our love is geometric.

never the reality of it
not the way it moves or twitches or yawns or blinks or longs to hold hands or scratch backs
maybe the way it moans and arches, maybe
not the way it sings or paints or makes coffee or plays with it's niece or hugs its mother
the way it stays quiet and still when discontent, maybe
the way it makes money, maybe
the way every motion is to please you, maybe