i miss the 3 a.m. blossoms you left across my neck
the dance we created from the movement of our bodies
and the harmonious sensation of our skin

i miss how you made my heart screech the heat of the summer
in the bleak of winter
how you made me forget what language to speak from the
movement of your lips

i miss how the words 'i love you' rung in your voice
in such a way i can visualize it and grab it from the air
engulf myself in its serenity
and say it to you back

i miss the way the sunlight gleamed in your eyes
the way your hands felt
the way your smile invented my happiness

i miss everything about you
but why don't you miss me?

She is a beam
of light
whose radiance
strikes my eyes
and wakes me up
in the morning
and being awake next to her
is much more exciting
than being ensconced
in my dreams.

Two words that explain my entire life.
**** up.
My parents were not ready, but they ****** up and here came their first born daughter.
Ever since then there has been some reason I am a **** up.
Whether it's because I say something wrong, I do something wrong, I act wrong.
No matter what it is, I will mess it up.
That is not an opinion,  that is fact.
You can give me a good relationship, and i'll lose it.
Give me a brand new gift, i'll break it.
My **** ups are inevitable.
They never end.

I don't go
to bars.
Not that I have anything
against alcohol,
I just can’t drink because
my liver will immediately
fail
and **** me
and I’m far too young
and beautiful
to die from alcoholism.
Not to mention,
I’ve not made nearly
enough mistakes in my
life
to have earned the
right to die miserable at the bottom
of a glass.

So I don’t go to
the bars
as there is nothing
for me there to do
other than count
how many times
that guy said
I love you
to his friend
who took him there
to get over a
recent ex

It’s 1:22 am
and I’m sitting on the
patio furniture
of the restaurant above
which I live
and I can see a bar
down the road with
a regal sounding name
and we’re nearing
bar time
when all dreams end
and a lady comes out
stumbling
and loudly yelling to her friend
points at me
“What’s he doing?”
“What are you doing?”
and I wave and say
“Come over here!
I’ll write you a poem!”
and she hesitates
for a split second
and decides that
a buzzed ride home
would be less dangerous
than a conversation with
a stranger in the middle
of the night and a free
poem
but all poetry is free
and maybe she knew this
and I had fooled myself
by assuming my
words
would enrich her night.

hello,
why yes,
it is late
or rather
early at this point
no I haven’t
been drinking
I’m just writing poetry
yes, I realize that
that sounds exactly
like an activity for a drunk
person but I assure you
I’m only
down here
because my fiance
is up there
asleep
and you see
she works days
and I work evenings
and
what’s that?
I told you
I live upstairs.
What do you mean poetry
is an inside sport?
It’s a nice evening.
and
what’s that?
well
I rent
from the guy who
owns this chair that I’m
sitting in and I’m sure he
has no problem with me
using it at one thirty in the
morning and
really if you want I can
call him
and

What?
I am not being a *******
and
what’s that?
yeah.
okay.
uh huh.

well,
when you put it that way…
yes my bed is
a lot more comfortable than the
one you would provide
for me.

have a good night,
officer

I want
My Way
playing,
the Sinatra version
so that when
each one of those
******* goes home
he’ll be remembering
“And now the end is near
and so I face my final curtain”