I still reference you in conversations.
I still smell your flannels.
I wonder how soft your hair is today.
I kiss the walls of the shower just to hear the same pop our lips would make.
I wish I had endless pictures of your collar bones and eyes.
I wish I had endless access to your thighs and chest and that dot on your neck.
When I *** I say your name.
Your voice recordings aren't the same.  I want you to call and put me to sleep with your breath and I want this all without the repercussions.

I want you to be my friend.
And I want the benefit of you being my lover again.

Bite
  marks
are
   love
notes
   written
in
   flesh ...
So
   let
me
   bite
you
   hard
and
   make
you
  moan .

Why can't we have meaningless talk
the way people have meaningless ***-
you would crash over me into a
river of un-scathing emptiness
and leave marks on my skin-
stories that this was where
you started to tear at
the seams
effortlessly
like the silkness
of your sorrows on my floor.

You would become a sultry verse
in this anthology of every day
lodged between the rush and
vacancy of broken hearts
and anguished limbs.

You would radiate the heat
of your angry, angry heart onto
the cold deadness of mine,
and we could burn and melt
all at the same time.

Meaninglessly you would leave
me out of breath,
gather your clothes
and go home.

one day you wake up,
look down the coffee cup
& out into the world
into memories furled

and suddenly you see
this is the life of me
where ever did it go?
i'd really like to know

like the wave of a wand
it's here, then it's gone
we do and we don't
we can and we won't

oh, let's make the best
take care of the rest
surrender to the tides
and just enjoy the ride

Do not wait
for someone
to offer you
their world.
Remember,
you have your own.

I’ve sat in throngs of people,
between seas and seas,
knowing there’s a small chance
salt gets called by its name
CaCl2 instead.

I’m constantly aware
I am one compound;
full, contradictory,
Knowing people will find
In the ocean of things
More salt as oceans evaporate,
Lifting to clouds,
Till only enough is left for us to swim in.

A little girl,
collects the beautiful things,
the Seashells people always want
—conversation,
joy,
money—
In ziplock bags,
with water and the
handful who can handle it,

And we,
Undesirable
stay in the sea,
Brushing from horizon
to horizon,
until we’re swept up,
Or drown someone.