You

There are so many words I could pull out of my fingertips.
Passion that fills my lungs
Shadowed *** filled air breathing through me
Waking up that sleepy side that never knew
The heated intensity that you've always called to
Soft lips and sharp teeth capturing your need
******* and biting it into an inferno

I want to go down in flames together

“ All’s well that ends” is the mantra that lies on my heart and the tip of my lips as I ride this evening to a close. A bit of a redux from the normal passages of human response, but poignant none-the-less.
For the phrase “All’s well that ends WELL” is a false statement, built on romanticism. It has very little place in the real world of life and Death and love and loss. In truth, “All’s well that ends” is less the accepted usage yet more the proper. To everything there is a season, albeit sad and lonely and quite often, “wrong,” yet always is the end a new beginning.
“All’s well that ends.”
Why do we, as humans, view the end of a statement as the final resting place of a thought? Why do we so fanatically view the end as such a gravestone for our hopes and dreams and ideas?
Why can we not leave that sentence exactly as it lies? Because we, simply, feel like we are due more.
More of an answer, maybe? More of a truth? More of a fairytale, based on those told to us as children…
“The world will make sense one day, my young one. For all is well, once it ends well.”
Yet, how often does anything truly end “well?” How many times can we count on a fairytale? Ever? Never?
More often than not, sadly, it is the latter. Because fairytales rarely exist in this world of realism and algorithms. They cease to matter once the antidepressants have dissolved and made their way into our bloodstreams, cascading forth their eternal apathy.
Yet, the truth is the truth, no matter how you may choose to slice it. The end of something is always the beginning of something else.
Here at the cusp of this page, the edge of this precipice, lies not the finite line between what is and what could be. Here, on this fault, lies the difference between making a new decision and dying, drowning in the arms, in the confines, of decisions yet to be made. Here, on this ledge, I chose the open ended over the finite. Here, I chose “All’s well that ends,” for the next step is inevitably “All’s well that begins,” regardless of how it may have ended.

And we drove on toward Death in the ever cooling twilight.
And we drove on... toward Death through the ever cooling twilight.
And we drove on toward Death.
And we drove on, Death be ******, we’ll see you when we get there. We have your number, and you have ours, but Death, **** you, and twilight too, we drove on.
And God, how we lived in those moments and the miles between, didn’t we?! Oh, how we lived. Tell me we didn’t, I dare you!
Through the fog and the night and the terrors that hide in both, dreaming of and racing to meet the sun…
And we drove on toward Death in the ever cooling twilight, hopeful of driving into the light.

We only have what we remember. Do you remember? Remember yesterday and the promises that we made to each other in the early morning hours before the sun had risen its fiery head? Do you remember? Remember the lies that were only lies in retrospect? The truths that we swore were truth until the rays of that star cast our doubts and fears asunder and we realized that we were wrong for believing in stone and embers?
  We only have what we remember. We only have the feeling of our hearts beating in unison to the rhythms of our own lives, yet for one fantastic moment, their tempos were the same. In that moment, the pathways of our futures lined up perfectly, becoming an auditory road map to infinity, or merely to the tempo change.
We only have what we remember, and how often is what we remember a stacked deck in our own favor? The lies that we tell ourselves to quell the fervor of our breaking hearts its rotten tender.
We only have what we remember.

The time has come, the Poet said
To talk of other things
Of War and Tax and Poverty
Of Peasants and their Kings
And all the treasures of the sea
That never shall be found
And all the Good that speaks in vain
That trods upon the ground
And why WE try, I shall not know,
For all will trod again
And all the truths that 'ere befalls
Shall perish now in vain
When all men born who cast a verse
A poet shall they be
And all of those will play their part
In slaying poetry

You sit across from me with your knees in knots. The best place for you to be. At arms length. Where you are safe from the soft trembling of my hands, the nervous pounding of an unsure heart against the bruised cage that holds it captive. Between the pages of you and me the ink has always blurred but  I have opened my mouth and let loose words, imagines that I wish I had kept to myself. Promises that only stoked this erratic flame. Cannot say for certain in the dark if you were laughing or crying but in the harsh light of day you were neither. You were gone.

I never can hold on.

Had I but waited
With eyes closed
I would have never tasted
The falling of your lips upon mine
Soft at first with gentle teeth
Crescendoing into passioned heart beats
Melting into the sacred shadows between our hips

Remember those city nights we spent
inhaling the marijuana and halal truck tinted air that fills the space
between the skyscrapers?

Glowing storefronts illuminated
both the skies with their stars glistening quietly under coats of dust
and the streets, dense under ***** and ***** spilled by boys
who yell obscenities to girls
who hang their heads low,
ashamed to be happy to have their push up bras appreciated.

It was the summer we read Catcher in the Rye religiously.
We were overflowing with privilege and hating privilege.
Oh god, how we thought we hated privilege back then.

In June we graduated from middle school,
and you found out your father was cheating on the woman
he cheated on your mother with.
In July you kissed a boy for the first time,
even let him feel you up a little.
I couldn't help getting uneasy,
even though you said it was nothing.

Most nights we couldn’t contain ourselves, shouting ideas
fast as the taxi cabs who'd nearly run our still-growing bodies to the ground,
always in a hurry to get home to their own sleeping children.
We raged rebellion against the red lights.
There was no time to wait around for things as unimportant
as people who weren't us.

In August, I took a klonopin pill from my mom’s drawer
because I couldn’t stop the dread beneath my skull.
It made me sleepy.

We were so filled with poems and wine copped at art galleries
where we’d feigned intellectuality,
that we'd see a *** on a subway train
and call him a vagabond.

Back then we thought we knew how life worked
like the palms of each others hands.
By September, albeit, our fingers were calloused
from the time we climbed a playground's wire fence,
twisted the caps off beer bottles,
and swung from the Monkey Bars.