embers drew to a shaded face, fragmented lips wept;
storms, feral and unabated, loitering in the combe of fires.
the ethereal visions of honey amber lights, faint and narrow;
ebony of my pupils dead, alike of shriveled meadow.

violence thrusted into yellow mouths of daffodils,
like tapestries like yarns of blue saccharine sorrows.
brimming with viscid liquids of blackeries and vains,
like silver mackerels, sleeping out of the abyss, on a train;
like subtle, maladroit shorthands and dewy black inks,
who lilts the fawnish plateaus and quaint alleys.

the depths of my shallow sleeps, glowing under
the burnt foliage, mellifluous sonatas gently play;
strawberries occur under bare walls of throat,
vanish on the morrow, like a dalliance—
so frantic and hollow.

I hope
That this year,
All will become clear
And I will discover
What I am
Meant to be doing here.

No more confusion,
Less doubt,
No rage to let out;
I really don't want
To get upset
Or to shout.

Twelve brilliant months
Would be absolute bliss,
I think we all desire this.
So I hope and
Plan to make
Some memories that I will miss.

With every year
That we depart,
We receive a new, fresh start.
Stay true to yourself,
Have some laughs and
Remember to always follow your heart.

to mine -

for what is my flame to your fire?

if you don’t remember me in ten years time,
I really don’t mind
because time walks
and gets to look at street signs and forests and waterfronts
and deserts and mountains and all of the little messages in books
that can’t help but change your outlook
and the beds of new lovers
and the eyes of new lovers
and that new lover’s wetted skin in the shower.

there was a day when I was trying to remember
all the names of all the boys I have ever kissed
and I couldn’t
because time walks
away
and is bound to forget
a few magical moments.

I can tell you’ve never been touched
like a hurricane doesn’t matter
like 40 below or a deep papercut between your
thumb and your index
couldn’t do any more harm
than a teddybear or marigold —
but that was
before me

before me,
you’ve never been touched
and you’ve never touched
quite like
dissolving  
into the fresh dew on dawn’s grass
and you’ve never stopped
to feel your ****** like stopping to
smell the roses on a worthwhile jaunt
or the daffodils
or the lilac trees, purple and white
or to smile at a happy sunflower
like all of your little hesitancies and horrors
are of little to no caliber

before me,
you’d never go a night without at least a sip of something,
you’d never give yourself
a chance
to be yourself
in the sober light of love

you’re shy and you avoid it
but if you counted the number of empty wine & beer bottles
on your balcony,
you’d finally know
you ought to stop pouring at night
and figure out how to explore at night;
dip your fingers in gooey paint and smear every colour
on the pavement
for hours and hours
until the sun awakes
like you have the power to love

even if

it aches

and at first, it will, like frostbite,
like papercuts all over your palms,
like cartoon cliff jumps that can never **** you,
like getting fired or evicted or rejected
because remembering something
as fierce and as merciless
as love
is heartbreakingly overwhelming
for the fact that

you had

forgotten

and forgetting does not make you strong or shrewd
it’ll only ***** you over
and give you a blubbery beer belly and empty bottled balcony
and before me,
I’m pretty sure you thought your life was a tragedy
because drinking feels nice and *** releases hurt
but I’m just not interested in being with an alcoholic,
so it’s best we stop taking off our shirts.

I’ve got to sleep on the outside of the bed
closest to the window
closest to the door
it’s crossed my mind
more than once
more than a few times
more than enough times
that it must be because I like to run away
and an easy exit
is a relief

I’ve always liked to run away
I’ve always liked too much space

I’m claustrophobic
by the wall
my heart pounds
like I’m trapped
in
and there’s something so stupid
about how
if I need to get up to *** or get a glass of water,
or stand underneath the moonlight,
barefoot,
I’ll wake him up
and the intimacy of sharing an
"I can’t sleep" moment
scares the **** out of me
because the question "why?" always follows
and I’m not ready to answer that question
just yet -
even though we’ve had ***,
I’m not ready to be that intimate

and
I can’t stand a man
that snores
though it seems like most of them do
and all I can do
is make do
and just lay there, until suddenly,
I’m asleep
but then he’ll move and I’m awake again,
until suddenly I’m not
and then it’s morning
and our breath smells
and it’s embarrassing to kiss
until it’s not anymore
and then I’ll want him to leave
but it’s rude to ask someone to leave
even though everyone has the right to
want to be
alone —

I think

I’m beginning to run away
again.

there is always the luxurious option
of
picking something up
and putting it down for awhile
and then picking it up again later,
if you want to,
like emotions and lovers and friends and jobs
and personalities

it’s a commitment to not committing; to running away;
to the shift of moments

but I think there is just something
so special
about staying
and saying:
hey I’m gonna try really hard not to run away this time
because running away doesn’t cure anything, it just builds endurance
and sometimes that kind of endurance
just
isn’t
as
important
as stopping still in front of the mirror
and really looking at yourself,
in the eye,
not only knowing you’re worth so much love, but also
actually
feeling it.