my broken soul
wanders to your house.
uninvited and unwelcome.
my body has become a ghost
haunting only your memory.

In some way,

behind closed doors,

We are beautiful

And We bloom like flowers

In the dark of night,

but the sun rises

as it always does 
and we wilt and 
drop

like leaves in Autumn

desperately awaiting

our pitch black Spring.

The sound of breath in your lungs pressed against my ears and soothed me
I closed my eyes and saw the shadows in your eyes speaking to me in a way that only a girl with shadows in her eyes could understand
There's something inside you that hides, curled and wounded
It's between our skin
Making me pay the price for something that came and settled before I did
It made me want to mouth your name to a God whose language you don't speak
That night I finally knew what to say
But you were not ready to hear it
Your fingers pressed into the notches of my spine
And I kissed you imagining you could lip-read my mind
Since then everytime you came to steal my breath and hold it in your lungs
I closed my eyes and let you be the surgeon

my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.

i've got my eyes set on the sky but my feet are nailed to the ground. gravitational pulls and cosmic love are contradictory, what can i say?

you can't see where i get it from though, all this love love love love, and babe neither can i. it lights me on fire and tears me to shreds, it makes me scared to go to bed, and all this thinking of the love i can't get to rest when i do, it keeps me awake at night.

i have no time to die, i've got things to do and people to see and nothing you say can stop me. (except for those three words that blue eyed wonder has said to me lately- but i am his friend, i am his friend, and he love love loves me, so you can't stop me, you can't.)

these days i have become well acquainted with these facts.
a. i am not loved
b. i can not be loved
c. i am broken
d. i will always be broken
and e. no one wants to share this madness that drips from the words i speak when i'm sober. (i'm always sober the only thing i've ever been drunk on is love love love. god i have so much. oh god, i can't stop.)

i'll swing like sinatra, rock like a rolling stone baby, and remind everyone of the mixtapes they used to love love love when they played seven minutes of heaven in their mother's closets on a saturday. the closet i used to hide in, but i'm clean now, wearing green, and my name is blue blue blue.

i'll have a little baby girl one day. i'll call her baby blue and she'll spit fires and cry snow flakes, and she'll remind everyone of how they used to love love love love love.

the sink is stacked full
of week-old dishes
that i haven't found the energy
to wash-
the dishwasher's spoilt and
i haven't had time to call someone to repair it.
or maybe i'm just procrastinating.

the laundry-basket is overflowing
with clothes,
i've been too busy working to put them to wash.
or maybe i'm just procrastinating.

this is what you talked about.
taking the last clean shirt out of the closet,
swearing because i realize my laziness has caught up with me,
eating chinese takeout almost every night
because i love the chicken chow mien,
not caring that i'll soon get sick of it.

it's what you called "that searching",
wanting more and more and even more.
we want the cold days to end and the warm ones to come,
we want back the people we used to love.
we want to see spring again,
for the cycles of life to repeat themselves.
we're never satisfied.
this yearning, this feeling-
what you finally gave up.

i see it in the mirror every morning,
think about it when i spill the coffee because i'm hungover
from last-night's emotional breakdown.
i catch a whiff of it when i let the dog out,
when i'm buying a CD from the corner video store,
when i catch a glimpse of myself
in the car window.

and i am filled
with the knowledge that
i am alive;

for this, this is
what the living do+.
what you finally decided
was too much for you to take.

but that's okay.
lock the door behind you now,
and drive safe.

I saw Anne Frank's journal,
In the back of an acidic club.
The colors were blinding
Bodies upon bodies,
I feel sane.
Fulfilling every craving,
My tactics come pre-rolled,
I follow the sound of the drug.
My hand is cramping,
From glass shattering knowledge.
And the stoners dance once again,
Slowly beginning to rap in Norwegian.
I love you closely,
One day we'll be together.
I'm talking about the city of course.
Or maybe myself.
I'm rapidly transforming
And the rest of me is melted.
I'm happy.

I will remember the time,
The time, when We kissed
for the first time, pushed back
against the wooden doors
of My room. The time when
I made Her cry,
and wiped the tears off Her face,
with My towel, and a sorry heart,
The time, when "just friends"
turned "I love You too", along
with a kiss and a tight grip,
The time, when She out of blue,
snatched My collars and kissed Me,
pausing My breath, smiling,
I was confused. Whether to
smile or stay stunned, or
when She called Me by pet names,
even within crowds, I smiled,
It was embarrassing, yet cute.
Ow, What a beautiful time.

Though, with one exception,
We both are flowing with
beautiful ambiance of the time,
but with a destiny towards
"Just a friend". A rare story of Mine,
Where, We chose to be happy,
yet, none with a victory sign ...