i.
Your secret messages become even more secret in a hidden part of my room, in my heart, in my mind. They never see sunlight, but they don’t have to. Things are better loved quietly, in the dark without the interruption of light--the truth. Messages become more meaningful under the moonlight, anway. You write me love poetry in what’s not said, you paint me images with the swirls of your type type typing fingers. We create a moon world. We create many moon worlds. We name them after jupiters 53 moons: io, herse, europa, thebe, leda. We plan to name our dream children after these moons. We don’t discuss the likelihood of our dreamlets. We don’t realize it’s because if we look at this during the day, it’s rotting.

ii.
Is the way you look at me in the merriam-webster’s dictionary? Is the way you brush your bony fingers on my hairy arms taught in grammar school? How do we define forever? Do we have forever? Do we even have today? We’re school children with no concept of linear time and a perfect understanding of infinity. We’ll never stop for the recess bell.

iii.
We sit in the bath. The water is hot for our baptism, cleansing our sins and souls and troubles and worries. We stare. The steam disrupts our vision, blurring our bodies into a two headed monster. Isn’t that what we are? Monsters? We sit in the bath. I think of that line from The Bell Jar: “There must be quite a few things a hot bath won't cure, but I don't know many of them.” I quote it, but you don’t get the reference. You’ve stopped getting my references. We sit in the bath. You tell me I’m special to you. I blink. I don’t believe it anymore. We sit in the bath. We stare at each other, the steam stinging our eyes. You pull the drain for the water, but we go down instead.

iii.
You push me away. I push me away. You push me away. I push me away. We stop pushing. We never moved.

ii.
Is there a synonym for you and me? We only exist in synonyms, in other versions of ourselves.

i.
I light my prayer candle for you. I whisper a prayer for happiness, for you, for me, into its embers. The flame climbs the wick slowly. Four of cups, reverse strength, the tower. I pull tarot cards until my fingers are paper cut to the bone. Past, present, future.

ii.
I read you love poetry, but not mine. I can’t capture the feeling of lying next to you like cummings. Do you carry my heart like i carry yours (in my heart)? I carry your heart like a school boy carrying your books.

iii.
Do you worry about me like i worry? Do you wear your guilt like a sweater? Does it envelop you like a blanket on cold nights? I wear mine like perfumed lotion, it sinks in all over my body and becomes one with me. You love my smell.

i.
Can i stop hiding you? I want to climb to the highest mountain on Io and let everyone know. There’s only you and me there, but that’s all who needs to know. I love you.

ii.
I love you.

iii.
I love you.

do you love flowers because they don’t talk back? do you love me because i dont talk back?

(i should i have so much to say so much to dream so much to feel but you dont listen sometimes always you trample me with your monologues and throw me a ‘how was your day’ but thats it do you care do you care do you care about what moon is in the sky what constellation is in my rising sun, it’s pisces season why are you not in touch with your emotional side i thought you were different i thought you were different i thought we were the same i thought i was different i read these poems and ask if im happy would you read my poems and think the same would you make the connection like the freckles on my body playing connect the dots with my beauty marks to form an abstract version of me am i an abstract version of me, just out of focus like im not wearing my glasses would you love me more if i was out of focus would you love me more if i had a focus my focus is you what is your focus is it me too do you refresh refresh refresh too do you tattoo our memories on your heart do you sing our tender phrases alongside the radio is my touch your jacket in the winter is my laugh the summer sun i thought i was your spring maybe im your fall why wont you fall into me are you scared of heights is our love the tallest building youve ever seen because sometimes it feels like it and i ask you to jump and you just laugh at me your laugh sounds like the piano keys you always hit playing your song my song our song theyre worn down like i feel are we worn down like an old pair of shoes you just cant let go of yet but they need to die let it die let it live in your dreams do you dream of me like i dream of you do i even dream anymore i dont remember my dreams so maybe i dont dream of you after all)

Beware of the sharpest poet with a pen in hand, for she will scribe the harshest of words that will forever reside in your heart.

One glossy raven perched, stately,
atop a snowy hill, Unearthly Long flowing wings, hanging down the *****, framing the hill
on the face of which,
were interposed two glacial ponds of blue.
Between these pools ran a simple strip of sloped marble,
But at the base of this was the most gentle depression in the snow.
In disbelief I observed two rows of strawberries, blossoming,
heavy laden with the richest red.
Each gentle bite of these more delicious than the last.
I continued my survey,
down to a long narrow hill of the freshest snow.
Here I came upon a wide expanse, a plain,
two long, slender berms extended at opposite sides.
But this was no true plain, and all the better for that,
For two equal mounds of snow enchanted the landscape.
The setting sun cast a pink light at the peak of each pale globe,
So beautiful I wept.
As I passed between their valley the snowy distance continued.
I observed an infinitesimal sloping on the Western and Eastern edges.
This expanse, perfect of any true blemish, was punctuated by the shallowest little empty pond at its narrowest width; which only served to enhance the beauty.
The length of this snowed plain was far greater than its width, the edges slowly creeping into the narrowest part before flaring out to a wide expanse.
And there in the lowlands was The Delta,
to the side of which extended two of the longest and most shapely tapering ridges I had ever observed;
each ending with graceful peaks.
But that Delta!
Though snowy, the darkest , shortest scrub had capped its mound.
At the apex of The Delta was a precipice,
on its face a cavern, pink walls glistening with wetness,
at the caverns base, a cave.
Its tunnel, with walls ribbed, was warm and humid despite the landscape of snow.
This is the landscape I cherish most.

I’m letting it hit me
Like a wave
Washing over me
Wet soil on a grave

I’m letting it burn
Like hot coals
Beneath my feet
Thought myself so bold

I’m letting it suffocate
Like a dark plastic bag
Pulled over my mouth
A marble statue made to gag

I’m letting it take control
Like a fortune teller
Whispers of possibility
What if I hadn’t met her?

I’m letting it sicken me
A twist with no hunger
Flicking me, eyes closed
Like sleeping through thunder

I’m letting myself fall
Far down the rabbit hole
In hopes I’ll land and look up
To my name being called

cats escape the human hand,
and allow a petinent relief
with making altar
with shadows,
              attached to body;
cats...
               are no longer
senile, domesticated
                          marionettes...
    two sorts of people died
in Auschwitz...
             one was the jew,
the second was the german...
            i can fathom
the former being revived...
       the latter?
                       hardly...
                    within those years
the german made closure
as being endowed with music...
to revive
a sense of reading the braille
of the winds...
             with these years
the german made closure,
and the jew took to
forgetting 2000 tier history...
    marionettes....
   marionettes....
       russian matryoshkas...
             harrowing
the immediate medium of
       kept: "luck",
in the sieving of the lost years...
     and a clinging
gong: hollow bell...
    hollow bell...
        hohlglocke...
a zeppelin aparon...
                    bruderliebe...
             by what pain
was the jew excluded from
europe?
                the summary
of faked snow...
          in the pedagogy of
england,
i became german...
   and come,
wished for a politics
of "identity"...
             ich bin: gemein!
   vandale!
   zunge-nein-albert-hafen!
we are,
   a list of 20th century
dates,
         burrowing youth,
to be made:
            rekindled.

You never know if this is the last time.
You never know if you'll get to say a Good bye.
So because you never know
You should KNOW to never WASTE anyone's time!