I have a friend
who is in a state of
constant action.
Whether it is
talking
or walking
or kissing
or smoking,
she is doing.

I never understood why,
never understood how she could
always be bored
when things slowed down,
never understood why
silence wasn't peaceful to her,
until now.

When there are demons in your head
that whisper into the empty spaces,
you look for other sounds to drown them out;
you look for something
-anything, really-
that gives you something to think about
other than the aching in your chest.

But soon it becomes less of a habit
and more of a necessity.
You start getting desperate,
calling friends at 2am,
sneaking out to walk to the park
because at least you're not
trapped in your ******* room,
and with desperation comes regret.

You start doing things you're not proud of
but at least the demons were quiet
while you were doing it
so you do more to
forget about that regret
and so on.

And it works for a while.
But the demons will creep back in,
hiding between teeth
and in ash
and under beds,
until eventually
there is no where left
for you to run.

Drunken words
tumbling out between
sips of liquor,
eyelids
heavier than usual,
she thinks
I can't tell
when she's been
drinking
but I have been here
through days when
she swallowed nothing
but whiskey and
antidepressants,
through
sobbing nights,
these walls are so thin
I hear every
tortured breath,
I have been here
through hollow chest
and empty bottle,
and she has never been
a mean drunk,
only honest,
but it seems like
she only tells me
she cares through
wine-stained teeth
and I wonder
if she can hear
my heart break
every time she slurs
the words
"I love you".

I ached for that harvest,
And tended you as best I knew
With hands, heart and later
with hope-heavy resolve.
Daring to taste ahead sometimes
but only very little.
Only in my mind.  
The days were early then,
so faith was modest and weak
as a newborn.
You were in an infancy of my making.
Birthed from an appetite that longed for sweetness,
but wearied during the ripening.

Restlessly watching for the shift to blessed fruition.
That moment when you would be no readier,
and would eagerly be reaped.
Poor Gardner me, too careful.
Shyly waiting for you to come to perfection.
Foolishly letting you whither on the vine.
All I have now is the taste of what you could have been,
Sweet on the lips of my mind.

I could bathe in your words, let them soak into my skin as I luxuriate in every lust filled line, every plea for passion floating around me in scented steam as I lay back and dream of how I would taste upon your tongue, how my breathless voice would sound in your ear.
I travel through countless worlds created by a million words but none touch me where touch is so sorely needed, none set my skin aflame and leave my breath caught in my throat, marking your absence there.
Oh won't you journey into my depths to rest awhile within the folds of my passion as I drip, honey slick from your eager mouth, my trembling hands knotted at your crown, my every wish granted as I fall to my knees in worship of your mighty pen

My skin shivers
at the thought
of staying still

My lips quiver
in fear Im
never leaving here

My soul begs
to soar up
to the sun

My mind desires
my body to
travel all over

My ears crave
the sound of
the crashing waves

My hands reach
for the sand
beneath my feet

-ARI

I want to feel the weight of you
Pressed lovingly against my back.
I want to feel your steady breath
Playing across my delicate skin.

I want to hear your deep laughter
Drifting through the warm room.
I want to hear your soulful singing
Meant only for my listening ears.

I want to touch your heated skin
While we dance around a campfire.
I want to touch your roughened face
After you haven't shaved for a few days.

I want every inch of your mind and body
While you have every inch of mine.
I want you forever and always in my life
Mostly, I just want to find you.

-ARI

The troubadour planted his last name between
a she-vegan's legs in San Marcos;
rambled north to that country of love, Oklahoma City,
where he took hits of windowsill acid every three hours
for a week straight.

To escape, to begin.

He spent his nights in the St. Cloud Hotel, trying to
sleep on a carpeted floor. He saw a color between
lavender and orange, nameless and impossible to
recreate. He knew all, including he'd forget all.
He shared a room with two high fashion,
burgundy-lipped lesbians, Viv and Jean, and
one night, the last night the troubadour, our troubadour,
was allowed to stay, Jean went out for some fresh air,
code for a cigarette.

"She never smokes just one," Viv said, little Oprahs reflected in her eyes from the plasma screen. She lay on her stomach on the bed,
atop a jungle green comforter. For your discretion and for the discretion of those before you.

Viv brought him between her legs.

"Gentle. Gentle," she said.

The troubadour thought of those Pepsi Challenge commercials as he tongued her ****. A lesbian has an edge when it comes to oral pleasure. Across the nation more people prefer Pepsi. She's got the same parts, sure, but as the troubadour wordlessly recited the alphabet with his tongue to her, he felt confident Jean hadn't put in this kind of effort, not lately anyways. And so what if he's Coke? The troubadour preferred Coke. Viv snagged a handful of his hair, "Don't stop," she said. "Don't stop."

And it all ended, as drug-addled, hetero-on-**** escapades always do: abruptly and with an "I think you should leave before she comes back," a "But sweetheart, this, us, I think this means something," an "I like girls," a "But," an "I just needed an edge," and later that night as he marveled at the  brilliance of the common streetlight, tripping his *** off on his last hit of LSD, he empathized.