Once a year
my sister visits the grave
of Montgomery Clift

She travels one hundred miles
to kneel in a Brooklyn cemetery
and weep before his
   modest headstone

I marvel at her romanticism
aimed at this mangled wreck
of an actor
this helpless mess of a man
pumped up with drugs
and rough ***
a haunted matinee idol
cavorting on the cusp
of madness

On her way home
she stares out
a bus window

She remembers his tremulous voice
and brooding eyes
his sullen features
overwhelming the giant screen

Soon she will fall asleep
dreaming of him holding her
in his anxious fragile arms
while the gray streets of Brooklyn
rush by

You put the life between your teeth,
the tip of your tongue brushes gently against it,
and draw a breath.
Reaching ******* and pulling it out
you look at the life,
with it's burnt edge and crumpled paper wrapping.

Watching the smoke unfurling slowly,
you contemplate leaving the life like this-
in the safety of your fingers,
away from your ever threatening mouth,
******* out all the life that is your life.

You decide against it
and slide the life back past your lips.
Breathing in, you can't help but smile,
a small,
weak,
tired smile.
You tilt your head back as life fills your lungs,
as it pumps through your veins,
diffuses into your cells.

It's smaller now, feebler.
A few ashes break away from the lit end
and glide downwards,
caught in a gust of wind.
Softly,
you press it against your lips,
dragging on your life.

I am fascinated with your body
The way your hips sway with mine, and how they line up perfectly
Like the feeling of getting the last puzzle pieces to fit
Your hands hold mine like a newborn baby; so fragile, so soft, so breathtaking
You remind me of a painted sunset with wind dancing across the sky as I lean in to kiss your lips that taste like paint and late nights
You know artists never sleep
and thats why you stay up late, wandering through the streets with me
I know you think a lot, and I hope 90% of it is about me
But I get this feeling like I'm suffocating with my own air, and I can't breathe, because the thought of loosing you, is like the earth without the sun
and I just can't let go
You're my tidal wave of madness, and my sunshine wrapped into one
And I just hope that all of our pieces fit, and that the late nights are spent with me
Putting our puzzle together

A girl once investigated her tousled
      subconscious, for starry-eyed symbolism in
dreams was a better navigator of
      real life than battery-powered bleakness of
her daily alarm. When little boys pretend to be
      sailors they forget to be lost under foreign stars
as well, kneeling on wooden decks and blistered
      knees just to plead with the unrelenting new
moon to tranquilize its harshness, just a little bit,
      to peal a layer of its sinister skin and
shed some light on the
      twisting abyss ahead. Among all the apologies
sowed deeply in my ribcage
      there is a haunting song reverberating
in my bones that is
      faithless to what my chapped lips preach.