How gently the rains of your face fall upon me. How sweet the dew of each kiss. How nourishing your body. Your chest and torso, broken bread. Your scent coils and creeps from you and I, buried in your crevices, drink it in. The intimacy of kissing your curls and the delicacy of meeting your lips. They all fill me. Sustain me.

I swallowed a pebble in a garden today. It was hard and thick and the graininess of it scraped against my teeth. I ***** the stones back up, shiny with bile. Perhaps I'm just tired.

I retch on cue and he smiles

Calling burns.
Sunset leaks from my lips at the touch of your name.
Orange sky fills my throat and belly and soft wisps of clouds puff beside my Cupid's bow.
You are the glow brimming along the edges of a dark world.
The precipice of peace and fire, tickling the jagged upcroppings on the horizon.
Melted sunshine, you overflow.
Liquid wax and flowers.
Drips.
Passes between our lips.
You are treacherously beautiful
My tragic aubade.

Art might be beautiful as long as it's true.
I might hope I'm Sylvia Plath.
But at the end of the day I'm just an emotional wreck hoping my neurosis sounds like poems.

Sometimes there's something jarringly disparate About the fresh sea salt fog and the beauty queen moon of the Monterey wharf.

Sometimes you need the painfully cold sludge of a Cleveland street with no sidewalks and the crying skeletons of trees to match your black coffee soul.

Being a star-crossed lover isn't all it's cracked up to be.
It's a lot of hurt.
But God,
I'd rather be hurting for him than not have him at all.

If I could,
I'd blow away on my magic wishing ****,
But there are no dandelions near me.
There's no shooting stars
No guardian angels
and equally enigmatic and mystical,
No one who loves me.
I wish I could go back to tell the little girl I used to be that everything gets better.
That her wishes came true and her hope in those magic sunshine flowers well placed
But I hate a liar.
I couldn't do that to myself.