I always said you felt like home
not like the home i grew up in of course

not like the one where after school i found my dad
half asleep
half sober
half alive
on the couch, hating himself

i always said your eyes looked like the stars
and it was a little cliche
but the stars made me feel safe
because of the night my dad hit my mom
for the first time
And i sat on the roof and cried to them

I always said you were like my bedroom
the one i would lock myself in when i was scared
maybe thats why i locked myself in you
I wish you didnt lose the key

Lounging on my windowsill are the two most beautiful plants I have seen.
One has half of its leaves chewed off, the other half are wilting but it is full of life.
It is full of good intentions and affection.
The other is a thriving Cactus Collection,
although they are better classified as succulents. Deep shades of green specked with reds, they are the apple of my eye for when the giver of these gifts is not present.

She is beautiful,
let me tell you,
she is stunning.

I once compared the feelings she gives me to the high of various drugs,
but that sad attempt of expression is a bastardization of how she makes me feel.
Of what she makes me feel.

She makes me feel the entirety of the cosmos painted onto her lips.
She breathes the life of earth into my neck and ***** passion out of my pores.
Her fingertips are a skeleton key to a chest containing any hint of beauty a human could possess.
She is magical, mystical,
beauty personified.

She is an essence.
Of what?
Of moons, stars, and birds.
Of elementary school playgrounds,
of Chinatown jasmine tea.

Her legs are soft beyond comprehension,
like the feeling of silk in a dream.
Her laughter is vibrant beyond comparison but let me try;

With words? I cannot! But with a kiss, I may attempt.

She is my favorite book,
she is French existentialism,
she is freshly cut grass!
She is the Yuba River!
Her beauty is measurable just as each drop of water in the Russian River is measurable.

She is immense and powerful.
She kisses tenderly and ***** wholeheartedly.
She speaks genuinely and loves truthfully.


Their will be no ending to this
because their is no end to her beauty.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about using every day.
I have dreams about those little yellow pills,
they don't speak to me,
or appear any different than they are in reality,
I just dream about holding them in my hands.

I couldn't do it,
recreational drug use.
I never could
no matter how many times I told myself I wasn't addicted, the truth remained
that I was.
I would tell myself "what kind of ******* is a drug addict, you're not, you're fine."
But I wasn't.
And everyday I have to tell myself "no, you cannot take those pills because you will not be able to stop"
Some days it ends there,
others I get as far as dialing my dealer's number.
Most days it's in the middle.

Being an addict is about having habits;
wake up, take three, (don't eat breakfast, the high will fade faster). Take four once the feeling leaves your legs, and four more before you go to sleep, so you can sleep.
Rinse and repeat; rinse and repeat.

Sobriety is the same way;
wake up, convince your self you don't need it.
Rinse and repeat as needed.

She helps, but she can't replace my addiction.
Although she gets me high, I can't become addicted to her, her lips do not have opiates hidden within,
but they have something better.

I don't think about getting high when I'm with her.
The high I get from her kisses is not dissimilar to that of methodone,
only their is no crash.
The high I get from caressing her thighs shares a likeness with *******,
except it costs love, not cash.
The high I get from hearing her gasp my name as our love making intensifies is very similar to that of hydrocodone,

only much, much better.

When i told you I wanted to go home, I meant I wanted you to feel like home again
When I began to pack my things
I grabbed my phone
the charger
which was awkwardly by your feet
and my pipe from the bookshelf we used as a nightstand when we finished our cheap beer the night before

then I remembered the old stuff.
the stuff you kept for me
the stuff you told me i forgot
the last time you said you loved me

it was the same week as my birthday
you called me
my time
so you'd be the first one to say it

when I called you on your birthday
three weeks later
you didn't answer

the shirt you gave back to me smells like you,


but i still have it on.

Sent Jun 29th, 12:10am

i just want someone to want me
to fall in love with my personality
and not the temporary
aspects of me

You're sleeping next to me
the time on your old digital clock
lights up the room in neon green
6:23 am

my head hurts from crying myself to sleep
but you already knew that

You're sleeping next to me
or trying to rather,
the sun fill the room as the clock
the clock just stares at me
8:47 am

I should have left before you'd notice.
I don't want to see you
I don't even want to talk about what you said

6 months ago I promised i'd stop writing about you,
here i am
or here we are

here i am
there is no we
there hasn't been
but somehow even in my dreams your words
your words haunted me
"... I just don't love you anymore."