Her collarbone is a basin
And it reflects the stars
Twinkling in her eyes
When the liquid salt
Fills it to the brim
And drops like an irregular
Waterfall down a honeyed chin

I wanted to write a poem
because I wanted to test
the integrity of life
when life tests
the integrity of me,
indulge in decadence,
and create a travesty
out of society;
fall in love, like a skylark
does with his sesame seeds...

and it was not until after
I have written
did I realize
I have not written at all.

Last night I went to Paris
with my first ever muse
and held her one hand
while we held the Triomphe
in the other

We basked in books
we bought in the rue de la Bûcherie
and gazed at herons in the Seine

We were two tired birds
that perched atop the Eiffel
one lazy night, ready for a kiss

That's when my eyes fluttered open
like the birds in Paris

the clock
tick tocks
in golden variables
every hour malleable
every minute ductile
every second savored
while we are juvenile

It was in the warmth
of her body
where I found ecstasy
my fingertips laced
in the spaces between hers
our thumbs painting
each other's palms in subtlety
her head rests on my arm
my head rests on hers
in the midst of each other's surrender

and yet somehow,
even ecstasies
end in sober

Too late in our efforts
to give love so adequately,
hoping to be loved back
do we realize
what was given back sufficiently
were mere lies
for they were more efficient
and the truth was,
we were never loved

Let the stars in the sky plummet
on their own
Let the flowers sway
The wind is just the wind
and nothing more
Let the angels sing their songs
and let the devils
shed their snakeskin
Let all the girls and boys
my age be happy
Let the sunshine sliver
across their skies
Let them walk into the sunset with love
ablaze in their eyes
And leave  me free
to wonder why
I do not feel the same

When you're 21
and barely
employed
and wholly
depressed
people expect
you to pull
your ****
together
and handle it
well,
you ought to say
f*ck you
**** is nasty
and I expect
to flush mine
down
the toilet drain

the sweetest happiness
is often savored
in our tongues
like honey
after a long,
and bitter sadness.

Beauty is in the eye
of the beholder
and behold
the beauty
in your eyes
even when it cries

people prize
the words
aristocrats toss,
not the effort
commoners
exhaust

Because it's like
a lightning bolt
when you're in love
with two vivid streaks
in the form of the hands
of a clock
love also strikes
but never in the same
place for a second time


But when
you fall out of love
what could be worse
than the slow, unending rumble
of each tick of time?
what could be more redundant?

Being young but unable to go out
Being able to go out but not feel young
The sky is nothing but a wide stare
into dry nothingness.
The drinks are a distant memory.
The moon smiles on the empty cities.
There's nobody to smile back.
The Monday mornings are not hated.
The Friday nights aren't to be thanked
in as much as opening
a canned sardine
with the edge of a dull knife.

Going to bed is not a rare occasion.
Staying in it is ubiquitous.
There's no race against a clock.
We're waiting to be freed
from our own homes.
As if the constant crowds
gave us joy in the first place.
Waiting...
to soar like a bird
and have the bliss
of a stained liver once again.