The feet of a dancer mingle
with the glitterings of a tenor
in the depths of eternal eternity
He can't help but laugh.

Knowledge knows true
the natural pretentious views of a world
made of wires and shadows and whispers unheard
this isn't made of sugar, but of firing electrons.

The amalgam of truth comes not from imagery
a painting of butterfly breaths timed to milliseconds
but of the young boy sitting in the laps of his seniors
chortling in the shadows of the darkness at the audience.

He knows truth. He knows honest in the arms of the best play
and jokes at the sugary saturation of image
in the depths of comrades' comforting arms
He laughs at folly and wires of creation.

For he created it out of nothing, came together
in darkest hours of burning need to bring forth depiction
and, though it may be unreal, the humanity lies beneath polished
cracks, in the love of boys, girls, men, women, ideas.

A cue for silence croons. All calculated. All ephemeral.
The deception lies on his wan face.
God arrives in the splendor of muscle memory.

And I would walk a thousands miles,
   o
       n
            e
At a time, until my feet bleed out memories,
                  y
                       e
                            s
If that meant that a light up, a bright smile,
                                 y
                                    o
                                       u
And I, you and I, nose to nose, blood and sweat and
                                          e
                                              y
                                                  e
                                                      s
On the dying moon, oozing crimson memories from the
                                                           s
                                                               u
                                                                    n
's bright after glow. That's my journey I live by.

In the chilling miasma of the night,
when all fears come out to play under the stars
the hot throbbing in my chest
comes from a reflection.

Eyes avert my own gaze,
the mirror on the bathroom sink.

Too many flaws are there,
it disgusts me so.

I know not when it struck me thus,
one day spent avoiding my own vision
that I finally managed, with a bold courage
to give my mirror self a smile.

The mirror did not break,
and I sighed.

Strangeness reflected and doubled back, over and over
yet it did not hurt.

And oh, how this dark fear that burdened me so
dissipated in the depths of me.
Heart beats echo in the silence,
my grin in the bathroom mirror.

She faces me,
and I face her,
Dissonance misting the small space between our eyes.
Our understanding,
Our sense.
Peaceful,
but beneath the skin,
The black fangs of rotten desire clench around...

To force back the darkness would be wise,
the odd, clenching pang of want,
just under my tongue.
To not ruin,
to preserve this as it were.

I would **** for such luxury.

Yet still, eyes wander,
shifting to span her up and down,
Eyes map, spanning heartbeats, seconds, millenia,
until that peaces aches within me.

We are balmy happiness no longer.

For happiness is as bitter as the stinging ocean saltwater.
A moment passes.

The air maintains the consistency of clay,
Binding the two.
Yet the hands of anxiety keep a perfect blend from being kneaded.
A moment passes.

A reach, a grasp at any part of one another. To feel, to caress, to intertwine hands as if
python and prey;
All, I find, more adequate alternatives to a denial of the wiles of want.
A moment passes.

I took a walk around my neighborhood
             wondering if I might see something worthwhile.

All was silent, all was cold. I was alone
             with the wind blowing, noises echoing for the street.

I cried, feeling sorry for all of those lonely things
               but never for me, never for my own heart in isolation.

Because I deserved it here, in the chilly gray sky
               and not an angel in the heavens would vouch otherwise.

It's a bit too cold
in this ugly Christmas sweater
made badly, quickly by my grandmother
when she did such things for me.

I'm sitting in my room, legs pulled to my chest
shivering through my long pants and wool
finger shaking, palms clammy and cold
but somehow managing to type out these letters to you.

You tell me you're so oh so warm
where you are right now, in your little house
just on the very edge of the forest
cheeks rosy and sweet, just like the rest of you.

Brr, it's too cold outside
to be this giddy
but I am regardless of the weather
you kiss my head in the dark.

And I wake up, then, all alone
teardrops dripping from my eyes, nose running and frozen
in this horrible Christmas sweater
and I don't think I will be warm ever again.

Are you aware of how much you interest me?
Probably not, that would be stupid.
What would a teacher have to do with his student?
Nothing.

But, regardless of that, you manage to catch
my wandering eyes anyway
because, after all of my watching, I've noticed
you seem different from my other teachers.

There is no attempt to provide perfection
or even the sham of one
when you talk, or write, or walk
unlike those I've met before.

You are awkward, anxious occasionally, funny often
like a human, not like a teacher
it's comforting, and yet not
because I fear failing in front of you.

For you who is so different, the pressure
to do better, to make you see me and praise me at all
smothers me with gaining frequency
so much so, in fact, that I have become a bit pretentious.

I interrupt others, and when you reprimand me,
I feel like the world is sinking around me.
My reactions are harsh and awkward at the same time,
and I cannot help if I lose it.

So, I am sorry for failing to be the best like I promised myself
or be the kindest, or the student you like the most.
All of these promises I made selfishly
without a thought to what any of it may entail.

I know you don't pick favorites, I know this now,
and I mean next to nothing to you because I am just a child you teach
and that I will never be your friend or someone important
all of these things I know far too well.

But... you are the most interesting teacher, person, human
that I have seen in a long while
I just... wanted to let you know that you have made a difference for me
and that it would make my day if maybe one day you could... notice me.

That is what I want more than almost anything. It's selfish and stupid and unreasonable.

I'm sorry.