How heavy the days are.
There's not a fire that can warm me,
Not a sun to laugh with me,
Everything bare,
Everything cold and merciless,
And even the beloved, clear
Stars look desolately down,
Since I learned in my heart that
Love can die.

I remember a time when we knew how to fly.
It was a feat that just came to us out of thin air,
and oh how thin the air really felt when we took
off. Our finger would cross, cross like the stitching
of a hot air balloon that knew no bounds, filled with
the air we exchanged into each other’s lungs, and
propelled by the pulsing flames of our hearts. Your
sparkling eyes were intoxicating whenever they met
mine, they bore the same sparkle as the wishing star
in the sky I used to put all of my hope and dreams
into. Every instance our lips locked into each other,
whenever your mellifluous hair sashayed by my
nose, or each time you cradled my weary head to
your *****, the more our wings grew; grew to a
point where together we could soar to heaven off
of a single push. We danced through marshmallow
clouds as our wings tickled the sky. You carved your
name across the top of my heart then tucked the
needle of a compass beneath it so I always could find
my way home. We never knew where we were going
but trusted the winds to take us where we needed to be.
We never turned our backs to the skies for it was our
refuge, it was our entirety. Together in the far reaches
of space, boundless and free, the world below became
a place we had long since forgotten.


I remember a time when there was gray in the sky, a
gray that hued to black. Together we could not
recognize these skies and quickly became unsolicited.
The livid winds and the bitter clouds would pierce our
ears as they shrieked in malignance. A storm had
brewed and the rain was falling. The drops snuck
through the cracks between our hands. The harder we
grasped for each other the more we slipped until the
stitching our fingers once made became frayed then torn;
we were disconnected now. The whirlwinds then casted us
further and further apart until you were shrouded by
darkness. I was naked and alone save for the grief I then
became, facing the murkiest region of the storm. The clouds
I once frolicked with now spat a deathly light in my path
until there was nothing I could do and nowhere I could turn.
I wished to my star but I could not see your sparkle anymore.
I was at the mercy of the skies I once called home however
mercy was not to be arranged. The bright light paralyzed me
hard and fast straight through my heart, gouging out the
needle that always brought me back to you. I fell down from
the sky at speeds greater than I had ever flown up. Crippled
from above I was laying on the surface, with not even a scent
of familiarity. My once trusted winds fed the flames that now
scorched my majestic wings and took with it the fallen ashes
they sprinkled. The name on my heart I once cherished became
a curse, an endless reminder of what I could never find again,
where I could never go again. I laid there utterly vulnerable with
a single hand outstretched, reaching for the world I once knew,
reaching with hollowed gaps between the fingers you once
spanned. Over time the weeds I now rested in became hungry,
swallowing me into the dirt. I am consumed wholly to this prison
now save for the hand that reaches, reaches for a place that has
long since forgotten.

swashbuckling kittens wallpaper -- cutlasses, eyepatches, royal blue bandanas --
lined the walls of the kitchen.

"you love it, don't you?" Mathilda asked. she poured me a glass of almond milk.
and I could drink almond milk with a lesbian forever. and ever. and ever.
fridge door open. it's sparse. a world weary McDonald's bag and a last chapter beer,
the only other tenants.

"it's neat," I said. don't care much for animals. don't hate them by any means,
but don't go out of my way for them. my analyst says it's Sparks, Oklahoma's fault.
see, when a boy, I had seven---no, eight kittens named Simba. the howl of the coyote
taught me about expiration dates. Had a hard time accepting total loss (e.g., eight Simbas).

"do you feel okay?" Mathilda asked. and I didn't. but I said,

"yeah, yeah. sorry about waking you up last night. just didn't think I could make it home."

"I noticed you slept perpendicular to the futon. with your sneakers on. interesting choice."

Mathilda can be funny. and the almond milk was good. and like I said, I could drink it with
her forever. the ceiling fan, though, rocked off-kilter. she had stray, sad balloons in orbit
around the fan. imagined the balloon with the red-lettered "BOO-YAH" entering the wake
of the wobbling blades. imagined the blades flying off one-by-one. imagined one striking
me in the head and freeing me of a hangover. imagined being in the back of the line outside
the gates of heaven, while St. Peter kept letting the hot, single girls cut in line.

"will you?" Mathilda repeated, I think.

"will I, what?"

"take a picture of me in front of the wallpaper."

"sure."

"sorry, I've taken like 30 selfies trying to get Grace to re-notice me.
starting to feel like a chronic masturbator."

"what do you mean?"

"well, you know, selfies are pathetic indulgences in narcissism. hell, they can be
necessary, as is the case this time, I assure you---but pathetic, nonetheless."

took the phone. Mathilda stood in front of the pirate kitten wallpaper.
she leaned forward. made a kissy face.

"do you have to do that?" I asked.

"don't bust my *****," she said, "just take the photo. I know what Grace likes."

the two broke up last week. Mathilda in her oh-yeah-wanna-run-off-with-ol-banana-***** fury
threw a ******* party with balloons (they were tethered to things at the time.
the dining chairs, cabinet doors, the wrists of guests, etc., etc.). I left early that night.
I'm straight and not very relevant. so, well, you get it.

"would you like some coffee too?" she didn't look up. with locust clicks she fingered
the screen of her phone, uploading the kissy face, pirate kitten wallpaper picture to
her Tumblr. I nodded.

at the party she bedded two skeletal, Sylvia Plath feminists. self-fulfilling prophecy.
she'd written about the then-fictitious scenario months ago on her blog.
Mathilda called me crying the following morning. between the
shame/guilt/self-pity wails, she advised, "don't ever be the third wheel in a threeway."
noted. she said the three had a silent, last breakfast before they left. and I said something
to the effect of, you didn't let them go near the oven did you?

the first droplets of coffee hissed as they struck the bottom of the ***.

"if only coffee were a woman," Mathilda said. "am I right?"

"if coffee were a woman, I'm afraid I'd still pour her into a fine porcelain cup and drink her."

"you're awful."

and I am. but she doesn't mind because I've been celibate for two years, and she's been
so successful it brings her down. off-setting penalties, the basis of our friendship. or maybe
it's the way we leave things where they fall or rise. natural resting places. Simbas. balloons.

when the brew idles I grab two cups. fill hers three-quarters full. she likes almond milk in it.
and I could drink almond milk with a lesbian forever, I swear. to the fridge. the ceiling fan
seems a bit louder. one-by-one the blades. and heaven. and St. Peter, the pervert.
gave the almond milk a shake.

"why you holding on to the McDonald's bag and the practically empty beer?
I think they're starting to smell."

she didn't answer. well, not right away, anyway. and I took that to mean they belonged
to Grace. natural resting places. so, I mix the almond milk into the coffee.

"I know I should throw it out. Grace doesn't even like McDonald's. Do you know what's
in that bag?"

"I don't."

"avocados."

"what?"

"yeah. one of her friends works there. just cut up some avocados for her."

what sacrilege. made me tired, you know? fast food avocados, selfies,
Sylvia Plath feminists, etc., etc. the ceiling fan sped up, for no reason, I think.
the balloons cast shadows over the dining table. and I could drink almond milk
with a lesbian forever. trust me. just not under those conditions. beeline for
the fridge. door open. snagged the bag of blacker-than-brown avocados
and the bottle of beer.

"stop. she could be back any day," Mathilda said.

and what I should of said was no. what I should have said was Grace,
for all intents and purposes, was dead. and what she was doing
was reusing a dead name. and reusing a dead name isn't a resurrection.
but what I said was, "okay." and I sat down under the ceiling fan.
my natural resting place. almond milk forever. and ever. and ever.

If you use me
as an anchor,
toss me off
the side of the ship
like little plastic rings
that ****** dolphins,
I'll sink into that cold,
that dark. Bubbles rising
to the surface, with each and every
pop you'll hear my last thoughts
as the pressure chokes the life from my lungs.

He awakes from deep slumber
to find his beloved missing by his side,
again.
Casting off the shroud of dark, dense clouds
He dons the black cloak of night and begins his frenzied search
for Her - the perpetually elusive one :
He scours the skies, cuts through frosty winds,
roves through the infinity of stars desperately seeking Her,
looks down :
at the lonesome road abandoned by commuters
that treaded upon her all day long
at a dingy alleyway where a girl solicits her new owner
for the night - to be used, abused, misused
at the young woman storming her way back home
distraught from a break-up with her Casanova of a lover -

- all this, while She trails behind him
in his quest for love, silently accompanying him
as he drifts over unknown lands,
hoping his agony abates, wanting to tell him
she is there, he could see her.
She, who lends meaning to his being,
his silvery, mesmerising
Moonlight.

Do not dissimulate from life
Lethargy instills apathy
Droning everything bores you
Nothing gets your blood boiling

Truth evades your gray cornea
Your persistence is persuasive
Petite energy emitted
Exhausted to convince numbness

You are the youth, the world’s future
Dissimulation not an option
Wave the white flag. We’ll still wage war
Never will you conquer concern

My comrades in texts and I’ll fight
To give hope, future, and success
Or we will perish in battle
Content knowing we truly cared

PLEASE CARE ABOUT YOURSELF!

Are you struck with her figure and face?
    How lucky you happened to meet
With none of the gossiping race,
    Who dwell in this horrible street!
They of slanderous hints never tire;
    I love to approve and commend,
And the lady you so much admire,
    Is my very particular friend!

How charming she looks — her dark curls
    Really float with a natural air;
And the beads might be taken for pearls,
    That arc twined in that beautiful hair:
Then what tints her fair features o'erspread -
    That she uses white paint some pretend;
But, believe me, she only wears red
    She's my very particular friend!

Then her voice, how divine it appears
    While carolling: "Rise gentle moon;"
Lord Crotchet lastnight stopped his ears,
    And declared that she sung out of tune;
For my part, I think that her lay
    Might to Malibran's sweetness pretend;
But people won't mind what I say —
    I'm her very particular friend!

Then her writings — her exquisite rhyme
    To posterity surely must reach;
(I wonder she finds so much time
    With four little sisters to teach!)
A critic in Blackwood, indeed.
    Abused the last poem she penned;
The article made my heart bleed —
    She's my very particular friend!

Her brother dispatched with a sword,
    His friend in a duel, last June;
And her cousin eloped from her lord,
    With a handsome and whiskered dragoon:
Her father with duns is beset,
    Yet continues to dash and to spend —
She's too good for so worthless a set —
    She's my very particular friend!

All her chance of a portion is lost,
    And I fear she'll be single for life;
Wise people will count up the cost
    Of a gay and extravagant wife:
But tis odious to marry for pelf,
    (Though the times are not likely to mend,)
She's a fortune besides in herself —
    She's my very particular friend!

That she's somewhat sarcastic and pert,
    It were useless and vain to deny;
She's a little too much of a flirt,
    And a slattern when no one is by:
From her servants she constantly parts,
    Before they have reached the year's end;
But her heart is the kindest of hearts —
    She's my very particular friend!

Oh! never have pencil or pen,
    A creature more exquisite traced;
That her style does not take with the men,
    Proves a sad want of judgment and taste;
And if to the sketch I give now,
    Some flattering touches I lend;
Do for partial affection allow —
    She's my very particular friend!

Your hands are mirrors.
Hide your eyes behind them.
Welcomed with open arms to the world of vanity,
an arrogant grin peels open from your face.
Your background Ignored: a blurred oil painting, timed anti-clockwise.

There's a blot on the canvas -
care to repair?
The painting develops into a framed photo.
Love caught in a blinding flash.

The ink blot re-emerges,
the photo dribbles black tears.

Abusing Respect,
Your eyes undress wondrous possibilities,
Running away from a portrait, streaming thick droplets chase you.

Desperate to feel whole again?
You selfish little boy.
Memories scare you
you turn to your mirror for security.

As the clock hand turns faster,
your body will jolt
at the sound of ringing realisation.

You never realise what you have until you lose it.