I am trying to move on,
trying to peel away the strings
that stick to my skin, linking me
to you.
My heart crumbles inside me,
rewriting it's programming to
accommodate the ache you make me feel,
as I make furtive glances at your
silhouette, imagining how your body
would look next to mine on hotel
room beds on hurried mornings.
And now I'm going places,
living a life that
I didn't see coming and
everything tastes sweeter here but
some nights all I can think of is how,
you don't call me anymore and I lie
awake all alone sometimes, allowing
my heartache to course through my
skin and if you knew how much you
meant to me, you'd perhaps smirk and
tell me that it's flattering and maybe
it's your arrogance that I like best but
some days my hands still reach
across screens for yours
and I am trying to stop but some
part of me
is still human and wishes you'd
tell me the things that,
I'm too afraid to
ask even though I
know that I perhaps don't want to
hear it at all.
Some nights, I'm certain that
I'm losing my mind but I'd trade my
sanity
to have you tell me that you feel this too.

I like things that are ugly
Like dirt
but not the nice dirt
you know the kind lightly sticks to wrists
the kind that you can easily wipe off
not that kind
I like the ugly kind
the seep into your shoes kind
the ruin a wardrobe kind
the type of dirt that you didn't know a second ago
but the type you'll know for years to come
I like things that are ugly
like a broken pool cue
but not the nice kind
the one with the decent tip
the one that we all call "old reliable"
not that one
I like the shattered one
the one we fear will break each time
the kind that all the chalk in the world couldn't mend
I like things that are ugly
Like an unmade bed
but not the nice kind
the ruffled sheets that beckon you to enter
not that kind
I like my blankets strewn about
the pillow cases stained with ketchup
the overwhelming sense of discomfort
those are the beds I like
I like things that are ugly
Like a crying girl
but not the pretty one alone on a bus
crying about some boy from some town
wishing she remembered how it felt before she'd loved
not that kind
I like the kind that are shaken, disheveled
unfinished puzzles beckoning to be solved
but fully aware they came without all the pieces

I like things that are Ugly

Wash the backyard off your face,
And the two am swing sets,
Cheers to the forever long gone sandbox toys,
The treehouse we burned down in 03,
Blue fruit snacks,
When being first in line was a win,
Scraped shins & knees,
Bandsids they could fix anything,
There's no such things as love,
Just lightning bugs & undreamed of,
Worlds....

outlines of red for a head
purple lines for a spine
icy pink run the length of arms
blue and green swirls for hips
silvery golden shins rise above brown feet
colored for heat and earth

the mind is deepest
here all things melt and meld
to slide down the spine
and cool to hardened action in the arm
the hips support and are friendly relief
the shins reflect the stars
and feet ground you to nature
the essence of where you are

the one sits
on the couch
by the window,

legs upon the coffee table,
trapped in tights,

toes lightly touching
the other’s denim covered shins,
right by the ankle.

It’s cold for a California night
near the start of May. The sky
was gloomy all day so some of you left
your suits at home. It’s alright,
wear what you’ve got. Music plays
through tiny speakers from a beer
soaked table as we line up, half
****, along the water’s cement edge.

The song is muffled, so I pretend
it’s The Shins. I can’t see anyone
through the rising steam, so I trip
headfirst to the bottom of the pool.

We get out every thirty minutes or so
to take shots, leaping back in without
a second thought. We don’t notice it’s pouring
until the lighters that live with our
glass pipes (within reach without leaving
the water) give out, and forget how
to make flames. Red cups have been
blowing off the table for an hour now
but we were too busy floating on our backs
and thinking this feels like home.