Gnat
really did love me,
she cooked soup when I was sick
and came over
and listened as I told her flu stories,
I held her
as she cried over lost loves,
We glistened
in the sun
as we laid in the sand
of a contaminated lake,
she put her hand on my ****
like she was holding
love in her hands,
and I played in her pelvis
like a child, innocent
of anger and resentment,
so many of the lies
that we attribute
to adult relationships
occur
after love.

I hate that Gnat and I
no longer talk,
hate that she can't make me
pancakes in the morning,
or that I can't put blueberries
in her waffles.

I bumble down the street
to get some Wild Turkey,
remembering her last call,
our last talk.

It'll be ok,
she's gone
and I can find
place-holders.

This will be easy,
right?

Love is easy,
right?

Heartbreak is easy,
right?

But it's not,
it hurts like nails
in my forearms and palms.

i eat my soul
out,
eat my heart
out,
eat everything inside
until I am a wolf creature
outside
in the dark,
howling at the sickle moon,
raving at some girl
in a bar
who I could ****,
but don't want to,
I can't erase
the stain of that other star
and the nebulas
of bright crimson
and hushed cerulean
that flourished
in the disturbing galaxy
and it's black holes
*******
away at light,
so I come back home early,
stumbling
through the girls that talk about raw *******,
while there is one star of knowledge
distancing itself from me.

It really was a great time,
me an Gnat went to the planetarium,
and watched the stars
swimming above us
in the Olympiad of useless love,
we had calzones
across the street
after,
and laughed at each other's jokes
out of politeness.

I took her back home
blowing a Djarum out the window,
when she asked for one.

I wanted to ****,
she wanted to ****.

So we ****** on the fouton,
truly bored with each other,
but having nowhere else to go,
no other ***** or *******
on the horizon
and comrades in our loneliness.

But it was good and tight,
and I ate her out,
because I'd always loved the maple syrup
of her ******,
and I don't think
her
or me
coming
was out of lovelessness,
I think the rawness
of her and my *******
was pure.

Love is a universe of sorts,
in many ways
two people can become
galaxies
on a collision course,
their arms waiting to wrap
and warp
around each other,
or one will be smaller
and less bright
hungering to be consumed
by the supermassive heart
at the center of its lover,
or one lover
is a comet;
the other
is a sun.
the comet burns
against the corona;
it lets off a trail
sweet and cooling,
and against the sun
it feels like the beginnings
of a nova,
the final cool-down
and planet-consuming explosion of it's outer layers,
but instead,
the comet uses the sun's gravity
to slingshot into deep space,
and the sun screams
in engulfing bursts of light
as the comet trails off,
leaving behind a dissipating gas trail
in its wake,
tugging less and less,
forging an ice-road into eternity.

Writing is not only an inspection of the world, it is the inspection of the self-contained world. The self realizing it's own purposelessness, and the seeming fruitlessness of the fight against the battering ram of its conclusions; so the self fights for freedom against this self-oppression, fights for a galvanizing truth with its self-contained ball of fire that burns weakly inside of it as the world outside goes bumping in the night blindly. Writing forces you more inward than outward. It is the inner world that re-lights the outer world; against all the blighting anvils in this tiny green universe.

There is something about her
that's not good
for letting go,
so I say this here
on a muggy winter night
as she lays on crags
in the wind,
pulling me closer
to those lovely halcyon stars
but a valkyrie of gin.

so I must say goodbye,
to this war machine of love,
I must lay my heart
back in it's proper place
against those soft cheeks of hers
where my lips were boarders
and my heart became wily.

I hate this letting go,
it'd be easier for us to hug,
searching lips buzzing
for the growing rose of the tongue,
I would rather
have things be easy,
and never have to
not see you go,
but whatever we had,
let its skeleton of love
grow old in the murk,
let its bones be recast
into something of worth,
let my heart reside easily
in the oilyness
of iniquity,
someday soon I'll meet another
and start this war machine
with its grandiose sacrifices,
and subliminal pains,
all over again.

So maybe this was your plan all along,
the great general
pushing the arteries around
like so many toy soldiers,
until the whole thing
was gone,
and there was nothing
to remember,
I really don't think so,
but maybe I'm wrong.

I hope you meet him
somewhere nice,
where you are warm
and flakes of yourself fall into
him like glaciers,
I hope he can become
the beast of love to break you down
again
and make you love him insanely
with only the best kinds of sin;
the kind that make you burn warmly
and feel young and wily again.

I saw Ada,
In New York. I hit her up,
and she wanted to meet up for breakfast.

The next morning:

She had on slate shorts, a ruffling, loose white t,
And chucks falling apart at the seams
in scythes of fabric.

Her hair bobbles
as she bounces over.
It's so frizzy and curly
as if it’s been through electroshock.

She gives me a hug and as she pulls away
her lips hit my cheek.

A grey pigeon lands in my sight behind her
and pushes a white **** out onto a starbucks lid.

The best thing
Is seeing exes that you haven’t
talked to or seen in awhile; and hearing
them talk about the great things they’ve done
In your time apart.

It’s almost as if I was right there with Ada
when she was experiencing
her new love of Brooklyn.

I am
A  ghost in her life,
And in that piece of my heart
That misses her,
I like the feeling of being
as free as a spectre;
an unobtrusive observer.