And there you are,
that look, those eyes
A ghost too long haunting
And then there is me,
Still held by them
A fool that dreams of yesterday
Every time, each time,
Caught regardless, breath taken
And the fool chases the madman
In endless cycles of recognition
One coaches the way of acceptance
I remind myself that things change
But there you are,
And I am drawn up, quartered
The madman has his day
That look, those eyes

there you are
regardless

Sorry...
Feel the crushing weight of it?

Beyond this the wasted,  
the fake, wasted.

The sensation
of darkened moments awaiting
daybreak and understanding

our past is playing
Cords of silk,
strung to be strummed,
a gentle note.

The price is living,
cast out, caught up,  
Knowing it was you...

You blew it.
Images played out every evening

Bitter sweet
the rotten misperception

Each scene you,  
And suffered through to numbness

To hold this,  
my happiest of moments
Without being able to know it

I find myself lonely,  
My heart weighted...

Seeing the end,

Noticing it to be...
an essential moment

Subtle beast within thy beauty sleeps
Your gentle smile hides the smirk beneath
Tenderly your movement blocks my wind pipe
The poison of your kiss gives me desire to live

I have been trying to think of ways to say 'I love you' on paper
without writing outside the lines.
There is much more to the way the blinds paint sunlight on your body
than beat up notebooks and chewed up pencils.
I make a lot of mistakes,
the kind that rubber only smears but doesn't erase.
I didn't mean to crumple your delicate skin like paper.
I know that paper comes from trees,
yet all the poems that make me think of you do nothing
to help me breathe, and your touch only proves
that my breath is easier to take away than you'd like to believe.
Forgive me for being comprised almost entirely of errors and mistakes and strikethroughs with red pens,
While you are so clean and refined.
I think of you in cursive.
Take my trembling wrists in your strong fingers
and guide me with a steady and patient hand.
Teach me to love you in bold print and I will underline it three times,
and again,
and again,
and again.
In my head, you are a million brainstorms thrown into waste buckets,
and if for some strange reason Helvetica is the only way to make you almost understand my thoughts,
then I am typing furiously and waiting for you to see them all.
All I ever wanted was to fill the doubles spaces between your fingers with my own,
even though sometimes you wish you could
backspace the words you didn't mean to say to me
while I pretend I don't remember them.
I have been trying to think of ways to say 'I love you' on paper
without writing outside the lines.
Then I ripped up the paper, scribbled it on a napkin,
and wiped the blood off my face with it instead.

I want you hold me more like bible and less like a grudge, but you just want to mumble proverbs to my neck while I touch you like a psalm, both of our breaths lost in senseless revelations. I have been keeping to much track of how many times you try to break me into lines so that maybe I will look more like poetry and less like a eulogy; you're only here because you have time on your hands, but darling, I have blood on mine and I'm sorry that I have had more than a few thoughts of what you might look like covered in red. Dying never should be ******, but you told me I look killer in this dress, and I know you only said it because you see it's strapless and you're so used to seeing me wear my heart on my sleeve. It won't matter once I'm dead, or even once we touch, but all I know is that this bed feels cold as hell and you're right here beside me and that's a paradoxical statement but so are you and none of that is even close to fair.

I want to take a class in poetry;
Learn the rhythm and rhyme
Of poets before my time.

I want to know how symmetry
And ingenuity can create such
Ferocity in works as old as touch.

I want to understand fluently
The words and stories told
By those so bold, now old.

I want to take a class in poetry;
Twist the rhythm and rhyme-
I want to make it mine.

we were held together
by name tags and aprons,
cold air catching in our lungs
and warm cigarettes burning
between our shaking
finger tips

"guys it's 12:05"
didn't sound much
like a fact,
more like a suggestion

there was no outward
celebration
filled with
champagne
high heels
and a television
but a pensive
awakening
filled with
eye rolls
dark laughter
and light sarcasm

I thought about how
at this time
two years
earlier
I was trying
on a variety
of fake smiles
infront of the
bathroom mirror
in Amy's basement

well it's been
a while since
I've felt the need
for red lipstick,
even longer since
I've worried about
the stains it might
leave on my teeth

I guess we let the seasons
change with a distant sense
of apathy but even when
we can't feel the change,
we know in concentrated
recollection that not a
single thing has
remained the same
still, we hesitate to say
that anything is different