at 11:47 your breathing
dropped slow
a sandbag underwater
drifting

I could hear the seaweed beneath your chest
my ear against the thin layer of skin
a raft protecting me from those
dark depths full of mystery
and angel fish

I couldn't imagine
diving
then we had that talk
the air was making my fingers stiff
I paced the sidewalk
and you were 20,000 leagues
under the sea

But I know there is a treasure chest
full of books
all hand written
by you
all that emotion, all those thoughts
they have to go somewhere

12:53
When you move to your side
I slide back to
land
my eyes filled with salt
from keeping them open
at your side

that's fine
I like blue
at night --I'm just the buoy
dipping and bobbing
in your arms

dreaming about the day
we can swim to shore and
ring out our shirts
and let the sun
brown our dried out skin

I think her insides are made of glass.

Light steals through her parted mouth before we kiss and jumps around inside.

It stays there, trapped, glistening through her different parts. 

Because of this she glows.

Because of this she could burst and it wouldn’t be a complete tragedy, 
She’d be a ****** star for a second.

I break her into thread, she looks like Christmas lights.

I break her just a little bit and she doesn’t notice.

Tiny pieces here and there;
during sleep, after drinks,
she just glows a little harder before her body seals up again.

But the sounds.

The quiet snapping sounds and the loosening beneath her skin. 

She becomes less young when it happens,
I can turn her into an old woman if I’m not careful.

The feeling.

Small fragments peek through, mark into me when I hold her tightly. 

Sharp like thorns but clear and flat.  

I could push her in front of a bus, 
turn her into glass chimes if I wanted.

Thing is, she loves me enough to let me.

I hate her.

I destroy myself and get more ugly.
She destroys herself and gets brighter. 


She will melt down her limbs over fire,

straighten them out and get younger.

The moving of her broken parts is music; 

I cannot sleep without music

The moving of her perfect parts is music;
I cannot sleep without music

I am trying to dull her with time; 
It is not working.

I put another body between us to push her away,  
I only pushed through and toward her;  
It is not working.

God put a country between us,
I pushed harder;
God is not working.

When she stops working I weld her back together.

When she stops working I work harder.

My body stops working,
I hurt it
and work harder.

She gets sick and I put a torch to her.



Just enough, and she’s stronger,
a little more, and she’s stronger

She becomes warm glass and soft glass,  
her body settles into the shape of mine.

Holding her less than perfectly becomes impossible.


I hold tight anyways.

Never too tight.  


I could squeeze her into sand if I’m not careful.

Lose her in the beach if I wanted to.

Thing is, she loves me enough to not let me.

"I feel sorry for you."
His voice was never one to mock.
It was always gentle, non-judgemental. (where's the catch?)
It didn't stop me from laughing anyway.
"Why?"

"It must **** to go through life too scared to really give a **** about anything."
(no really where's the catch?)

I admit, I lost my wit, there was nothing I could think of to say.
My tongue rolled around in my mouth looking for lost words
Checking behind every tooth to see if they were hidden there.
I managed to cough once to see if any were lodged in my throat.
But all I could think of was how
beautiful
he looked in the moonlight
the only thing giving light to his eyes, half a cigarette
I wondered then If the burning stump gave his eyes that red tint
or maybe
he was born with it.
******* on his cancer stick.
Maybe that's were he got his words from
I should start smoking too.
Maybe
"The world isn't so black and white, you know?"
He had a way of making the truth sound poetic
Like it did on that hill, by that creek, under that moon
By the burning cigarette
all I could think to say was
"The truth is only pretty in certain light"

the sun's setting,
it's tangerine streaks, and its orange blues,
the silky subtleties that in a moment we lose,
i don't know why they remind me of you.

maybe it's because of my tired soul,
soothed in morning's light it's easy to ignore,
maybe the way it always burns for more.
i don't know why it reminds me of you.

and when i muse,
these private little moments space infused
they seem connected.
lost feelings seem resurrected.
i don't know why they remind me of you.