It is so hard
to watch you just now take interest in the things I tried to show you
And to wonder why you never listened
when I told you that the full moon cleanses a crystal if you'll let it
and how for your information my paintings aren't stupid
and they aren't for you even though you didn't say that out loud.

I've been keeping a journal of trips I wish you'd taken with me.
An album of photos you should have been in.
A list of nights I wish you'd spent in my passenger seat.

I've been collecting all of our favorite pieces of myself in a mason jar;
Fireflies to leave by your bedside so if you wake up in the middle of the night you won't feel alone.

I know too well the hourglass purgatory that is your absence;
Frighteningly similar to the sensation of waking up in empty darkness, unable to remember falling asleep.

We met when your best friend was in love with me.
You joked that you were falling in love with me, too.
I laughed.
Eventually, I fell back.
And we fell together, deeper and deeper into something we never did figure out.
Now, I am here wondering
when I will be able to stop wondering when you will come running,
arms open, to tell me
"It's you! It's always been you."
And I will laugh that it's always been you, too.
Except I won't be joking.

I wrote about the frozen water on the bay that last winter to convince myself
that you are not
the only thing
I write about,
and you're not really.
I just don't think the ice will melt unless you burn it with me this spring.

And sometimes I wake up empty
and wonder at what point in the night you got up and left,
the same way I used to.
And then I remember how long it's really been.
And I remain empty.

Some nights I don't sleep at all.
I wait for the sky to change.
I name the mornings after the times I missed you most
and the stars after the nights you decided to stay.
You always told me naming a part of the sky was foolish until I named one after you.

I take advantage of the catalysts.
I test how high I can stay and for how long.
There is so much happening in my mind that it's taken over my body.
And I am involuntarily running in circles.
My body must think that if it keeps moving,
it will eventually run into you.
I haven't eaten in days
because I can't find an appetite for anything but the way you tasted.
And avoiding "reality" is ironically easier when I'm awake for days,
Because I don't have to wake up to the sharp reminder that you're gone.
And that I miss you.
It's just a constant dull ache.

Missing you is driving all night to watch the sun come up but being too busy collecting sea shells you might have liked on the beach to look at the sky.

Missing you is wishing I had the guts to jump.

Every night it all comes down to missing you from the bottom of a bottle,
or the passenger seat of a strange boys car.

And every time I end up on a busy road,
I wonder how many other passengers are missing someone.
I wonder if before I learned to miss you,
people of the past could have ever imagined
that someone like you would buy an old snapshot of their child on a rocking horse from an antique shop,
in search of an imagined, falsified nostalgia.

And I wonder if the brain takes snapshots of what should be nostalgic,
thus leading to the invention of imagined memories.
When my most treasured memories are those imagined, how will I tell the difference?

The mornings we watched turn to light together (we never did),
The nights we spent without arguing (they never happened),
The time you told me you appreciated the way I saw the world (you never even opened your eyes).

And you used to tell me that searching for seashells and watching sunrises and collecting experiences that make me feel whole arent "real life".
And I'm dying to know what "real life" is because the one thing that is timeless is that the sun does rise.
And exists.
How much more real can we get?

But where's my credibility?
I believed in us.

And I was going to name this one after you, but I can't remember your name.

I'm not so active
I may not know how to live
and I don't exercise but I exercise my right
to keep this in my line of sight
at all times
and somehow my muscles are as sore as when they tear away
but only from the shivering
I've gotten done these past few days
I shake and shake
and my racing heart keeps pace
with the chattering of my teeth
as my entire being vibrates
from the inside out all except for my vocal chords
whom long to move with the rest of me
to let you know that you could leave here with the best of me
build your lifeboat and life vest in me
and we can sail together to the east
ignore reason
commit treason
while they're sinking,
we hold on tighter to this fleeting feeling
run around
until I burn myself to the ground
because it feels so good to burn
when you're always left this cold
and no exercise
can repair these severed ties
or even make me want to try
to find a stillness in my soul
to find my niche
to find a home
to focus on a mastery
when being fluent in one language
won't ever land you on the front page
no matter what it is you have to say
but I only know the language of the sleepless nights
in the dialect of "the fear of another wasted day"
and when I overhear comments
on my "newfound" accent
all I really hear is
"her words never mattered anyway"
but they'll remember with the Frost
that "Nothing gold can stay"
and misquote me
on my final day.

It’s a little ****** up,

every time I get into my car

my impulsive desire is to drive

to you, wherever you are.

That every time I pick up my phone,

my hands try to dial your number at the tone.

That every breath I take

my senses miss your scent

and every mistake I ever made

haunts me with our end.
Also,

It’s a little ****** up how much I still love you.

Roller Coaster
Sparrow
Paper Bag
Picture
Diver
Market
Elephant

Roller Coaster: This won't be the typical mention of a roller coaster, about the ups and downs. But rather the fear I felt on the line for the ride and the reassurance I was handed by my companion and how I wish to feel that safety in words again.

Sparrow: I carried a baby bird to healing 4 years ago with a broken wing. But today I was asked for help with another and I could not have cared any less. I don't know if that's because I've "come to my senses" or just lost hope in flight.

Paper Bag: sound of ripping paper in half pause This is what I really heard when you told me you're doing well, without me.

Picture: I never did know what I'd find to do with this picture of a house, that I found in a house, that used to be my house... I'll just use it to say "house", because "home" is a word I don't know what to do with.

Diver: You are a cliff diver.
You take that leap of faith.
Your safety fails you.
Your back up fails you.

Really close your eyes.
Grasp the horror.
The betrayal.
The eventual impact of landing.


Thanks, mom.

Market: Remember when we had to wash our hands after every trip to the super market to avoid germs? What did we do to avoid what really infected us? What did you teach me to keep this sickness from creeping into my chest and eating me alive from the inside out? No preventative measures were taken against the most terminal illness that I could have picked up in any market, in any lifetime. So this is me, begging for a cure, and for the medicine I seem to have missed too many doses of.

Elephant: So... How's that for an elephant in the room?

I can make no noise but the scratching of pen to paper now.
And when I try to display the pieces of my heart,
they only find their way up into my throat.
Next to whiskey burns to ease "hello"'s
and "goodbye"'s I've waited too long to give.
Next to the "no, thank you"'s that were ignored,
and the thrusts of strange men that I missed you during.
Next to the laughs I've faked
at jokes that reminded me that you never liked my sense of humor.
And next to the cracks in my voice,
when the song that made me miss you before you were gone came on the radio,
but I still sang along.
And I'm sorry that "stuck in my throat" isn't loud enough to tell you
that I'm sorry that I was never enough.

The cold kept us inside
the police declared a state of emergency
but for us it was a state of emergence
we filled our veins with alcohol to keep warm
and lit fires in each other for days
burning through what brought us together in the first place
we said our love would remain solid once the ice melted away
and ventured into the bright blinding blanket of white
feeling like we were even brighter
feeling lighter
but when the plows cleared our paths  back home
I took another
and somehow ended up back in the cold
alone
so I lit a fire
poured myself a drink
found myself mixing liquor with blood in the sink
a makeshift blanket with every drop screaming back at me
DON'T YOU THINK?
DON'T YOU THINK?
DON'T YOU EVER ******* THINK?!
A carefully crafted cocktail of doubt and DNA down the drain like the melted storm
but I finally felt warm while alone
Emerging, raining,
Saying "I am fluid
and I am coming home"

I want to be close enough to hear the ringing in your ears, but if you heard the ringing in mine would you even pick up the phone?
Because your conscience is clear and as long as your secret can keep a secret, your eyes are too empty for anyone to tell.
But I know that to tell how someone is loving you've got to look into their "I"'s.
Ask them if snowflakes think they're falling or flying? The same way I've plummeted into you while I somehow imagined I was still the pilot.
Ask if the clouds aim to protect the earth from the light or the sun from the darkness on earth?
Because love isn't blind, love is a blindfold.
It's a blanket when you weren't cold, recognizing his tire in the road.
And I've never been good at lingual warfare,
but I have a feeling soon I'll be using my grey hairs
as a form of punctuation
in a fruitless explanation-to myself
that the way you touch me isn't a 'waist' of time.
And as long as you keep calling, I will answer to the ringing in my ears.

Junkyards are cemeteries too
they're just the ones no one brings flowers to
or visits after they've said goodbye
and they are filled to the brim
with forgotten wheels and empty bodies
and I am sick of these wheelbarrow operations
and the way the mice eyes sparkle
as they wait by the mailboxes
that don't even belong to them
for love letters from the cats that will never come
because when she said "I love you"
it was a junkyard kind of goodbye that she meant

And for my next trick
I'll vanish with no trace
not quite by magic
they'll still see my face
leave my body behind
defy time and space
take my soul and my mind
so they don't go to waste
a new bringer of light
will inherit my fate
to meet constant fear
disregard and disgrace
as darkness grows near
I am leaving this place
and to all it is clear
I will not be replaced

I had a dream about you
and now all I can think about is empty cups
and branches without leaves
and the blank sky during the new moon.
I wish I could talk about the way
you make me forget I'm sick
and how tonight I want to be around you
because that's when things are kelly green instead of navy blue.

forward forward forward
going somewhere moving forward
whether progressing or regressing
growing or unlearning
coming or going
living, dying
everyone believes they are moving towards something
and as everything happens all at once
each perceptive reality is entirely different than any other
and each consciousness travels, and does, and is.
each consciousness believes it has a purpose or a path.
the purpose is not to see into nor plan the future.

from the civilian to the hero tv shows and movies
have consistently glorified the ability to see visions of the future
generally this is followed by someone trying to prevent
the happenings in said vision from becoming reality
and distinctly failing because they "saw into" the future
that their own energy influenced

but the true super power is to be able to look into the past.
to prevent the omitting of details and data
to avoid a rewrite of our conscious interaction with this planet
not to white out the chapters that bear the truth in the textbooks
to recall history so it does not repeat itself

my question is then
do people disguise the wrongdoings of those hidden by the passing of time?
because they are ashamed of the mistakes of their ancestors pasts?
because they are ashamed of their participation in past consciousness's?
because they are ashamed of the atrocities humans have inflicted upon each other and themselves as well as their home planet since the beginning of recorded time here?

or do those who have the power to omit and hide history
purposely rewrite it?
do they mask the pains of the past so the rest of us will forget?
so that even they can forget?
so their next consciousness can unknowingly, while predestined,
have hand in crimes against the world all the same as committed in the lost past?

how many times has someone written these words
or a similar combination
only to delete the post?
burn the pages?
backspace the message?
stop themselves from speaking them aloud?
cover the symbols?
pass out of conscious living mid sentence?
lose them to a past lifetime?

how many times has this cycled through the same way?
how many times have I been me?
how many times have you been me?
how many times have I been anyone?
how many times have I been?

is there a rhythm or is it all as scattered and random
as the thoughts that bring you
to this kind of an understanding of the habit of misunderstanding?
the kind of thoughts that bring you back to the birds nest because you were too early for even the worm?

they will all catch up eventually
after all they all think theyre moving forward
and they don't even know where they've been.
they don't even know that they've been.

They say I was built to aid them, so they congregate daily to make use of me.
When my legs can no longer support myself as well as their needs, I will be gone.

                                                                  //A table's understanding of purpose

(no hard feelings)

You read a poem aloud about the word bible. You speak of your eyes rolling back and as I watch your lips release these heavy words, you captivate me further and further. By a minute from now I will forget to regret the addictions we've formed together. I wonder if this is how religion began; how they sat and penned a holy book. And I want to know then who our god is...but tonight I think we both know.

What do you think
of the blood in the sink?
Did you think you could climb out your veins?
Would leaving your being
give a new meaning
to the vessel that will remain?
This is the day
they will look back and say
is the one that started "the change".
And they'll all find
at the end of their time
that you were the one who was sane.

(They were too full to open their brains,
so now they take the blame.
Wisdom and Light are mistaken for Lunacy,
I'll follow this, while you follow me.)

please don't blame yourself
nothing was up to you
you cry for days and days
but there was nothing you could do
please don't hurt yourself
I cant bear to watch you bleed
someone so true and pure
should never feel this harsh defeat
you never did a thing
to warrant all this pain
you don't deserve the thunder
and you don't deserve the rain
ive never been a rhymer
ive never been much good at all
but I promise you my angel
I will never let you fall
I will repair your quiet breaks
I will never leave your side
I wont ever make you wait
ill be here til the day I die
I wont let you be alone
even when you try to hide
I wont let you take this blame
I don't care how hard you try
you dont just twinkle like the stars
youre the sunrise in my sky
youre the most vibrant flower
youre the day and youre the night
please dont blame yourself
there is nothing left to do
but be calm and understand
the one who matters now is you.

pull out your eyelashes
imagine pinching yourself repeatedly but not feeling a thing
stare at the tail lights of the car ahead until your eyes are crying but you're still not
chew a mouthful of sand
put ice cubes in your pockets and let them melt there
pour paint over your head while wearing your favorite shirt
break a nail and let it catch on all of your tights
close your hair into the car window
trip into ****** knees stay there and don't get up

don't get up

Can't I be the one you dream about,
and wake up empty and alone?
Like when you're already in your bed,
but all you want is to go home.
The one you want to call
every time you see a phone.

And maybe we can talk about the most vivid memory I carry from my childhood; My mother left the stove on too long unattended resulting in melted plastic in a ruined *** and toxic smoke that'd press heavier on our shoulders than we'd ever imagine and for years to come. But the stinging in my eyes and the burning in my throat remained unparalleled until I watched as you burned out in front of me and I was forced to swallow the caliginous reality *that you just wouldn't be around anymore.

Loving you is waiting up all night for the sun rise
but the clouds roll in at dawn
and it starts to rain as soon as I pull up to the beach.

I've always hated having long nails.
I let my nails grow
so I could scratch your back
when you wanted comfort.
Now that you're gone
I don't want to cut them anymore.
I don't know if that's because I want to use them
to claw into my own skin
and rip out the parts of me that crave you,
or because I'm hoping
that I still have parts of you
under my nails.

4/8/15
You're everywhere. Each place I visit falls under one of these categories.
1. We've been there together before.
2. I've been there without you but wished you were with me.
3. I will one day go there and when I do, I will want to tell you about it, but won't be able to.

6/8/15
Two months later.
I can't remember where I saw you in all of these places.
Even when I search for days, I can't find you anywhere now.

There is so much happening in my mind
that it's taken over my body
and I am involuntarily walking in circles.
My body must think that if it keeps moving,
it will eventually run into you.
And I haven't eaten in days,
because I can't find an appetite
for anything but the way you tasted.
Avoiding reality is ironically easier
when I'm awake for days
because I don't have to wake up
to the sharp reminder that you're gone over and over.
It's just a constant dull ache.

4/3/15 6:09am - Missing you is worse than finding out 3 weeks later than the rest of my family that my grandmother has cancer, because my father "forgot" to tell me.

4/4/15 12:37pm - Missing you is like the tv special I watched when I was 8. I won't ever forget those conjoined twins who's operation failed. Or how the one who survived always reached for the other.

4/5/15 12:43pm - My god, missing you is so much harder than I thought it would be and it's been just two days. I've had constant drugs and sunrises. I'm so empty.

4/6/15 2:07pm - Missing you is driving all night to watch the sunrise but being too busy collecting shells you might like on the beach to look up at the sky.

4/7/15 4:11pm - Missing you is wishing I had the guts to jump.

4/19/15 3:59pm - Missing you doesn't make sense anymore but it comes much more naturally then walking or speaking or breathing.

7/6/15 5:09pm - I miss you.

7/15/15 6:46pm - Missing you feels like being told that my mom is leaving my stepdad weeks after it's happened and wondering when she'll admit to leaving me.

8/19/15 12:23am - Every night it all comes down to missing you from the bottom of a bottle or the passenger seat of a strange boys car.

10/1/2015 8:37am - I don't know when I stopped missing you. I guess maybe it was when you ****** my best friend. Or my other best friend. Or my other best friend. Maybe it was when you fell for her. When someone who knew nothing about you, didn't do everything I did for you, who can't even commit to you, was suddenly better for you than I ever was.
I don't know when I stopped missing you, but I miss missing you this morning. I miss missing you.

Missing you
is kind of like that itch I sometimes get on my lower back.
I initially assume that it's just the ends of my hair,
but am quickly reminded
that I cut my hair off
to forget about the way you pulled it.

-The grinding metal of my grandmothers car being junked because she could no longer drive it, or afford to feed the cat.

-Apologies and Band-Aid wrappers taking turns being tossed to the floor as my father cleaned up ****** knees that he tripped me into.

-The baby's cry that wouldn't stop no matter how many times the pastor pleaded with his congregation to relieve the sanctuary of their miserable children.

-The violent scream of both a passenger and rubber burning against pavement, followed by a demolished guardrail, motorcycle, and skull. As heard from the neighboring yard, over s'mores.

-Four gunshots. And then a single siren.

This list includes:
Things more pleasurable to hear
than the sound of the ringing
that was left in my ears
when all you could say
was "it's weird".

I know how you like your tea
and your favorite latte.
I know your favorite candies
and how you like to be held rather than to hold.

I don't know your favorite color
but I can tell you the color of your eyes when you're laughing
is brighter than any hue I've seen.

And I don't know where you are now,
but I can tell you where you took me
when you told me your childhood memories
and about your dream last night.

And I won't lie
and say I've counted every freckle on your shoulders,
but I can admit
I've counted every time I've noticed them.

The best way I can explain how I feel
is to let you know that I'd miss the sunrise to lay next to you instead,
And I know I've never felt that way.

She asked for a lullaby
to calm her fears and close her eyes.
Now she bleeds in melody
crimson notes played freely.
They drip to the floor
from a puddle in the crib,
and the mobile where she hangs
is the last place she would live.
It rocks and creaks
creating a beat,
while slowly she sways
in perfect harmony.
And as I am overcome
with the rhythm of regret,
I sing her one last lullaby
and finally go to bed.

My hair and car smell like an ashtray,
but that's okay as long as I get to watch the smoke escape your lips
the way the words "I love you" used to.

I'd let you put your cigarettes out on my skin
for the rest of my life
if it meant your fingertips might brush the surface for a second.

You think in terms of a hundred thousand tomorrows, readily available at your disposal. Like a carefree cattle in a field of green where anything is yours for the taking.
I think in the most apocalyptic terms, like today is out last and there's no time to do anything but love.
I don't know, maybe you believe that all of those tomorrows are there for you to come back to me whenever you please. Maybe you would rather spend every tomorrow by someone else's side. Maybe you want to be alone, away from the herd.
I am a hungry cattle in a barren field. I am starving for your attentions, wasting away with a lack of significance to you.

Apocalyptic? Maybe not, but I'm dying without you either way.