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I want something that I cannot have. I cannot have it because I don't truly know what it is. I've seen it polished and propped as if it were on display and I've heard the stories of how much time and effort it took to make it look as such. But I want it. I want love. I want the idea of it at least.
I want the fights brought about by events simpler and less important than the time we wasted to have them. I want to be pained by the sight of her pain and know that the feeling of knives piercing my chest when I see her cry is there because I would literally drive them there myself, if only to prevent her tears.
I want our laughs to intertwine over the smallest things and our conversations to stretch our minds over the biggest. I want to see you sleep at night and I'll smile because I know that you're finally at peace. And I want you to smile when you wake up because you know that I'm fighting to make your reality better than your dreams.
I want love. I want romantic love, I want crazy love. I want passion. I want to pick you up in my arms and in that brief present get lost in your presence. I want to be in you when I am in you and have you wish that I would stay forever. I want to be in your heart and mind, and I want our love to be torturous and blind.
I just want love. I want the idea of it at least.
 Jan 2016 Aj Cuntapay
Steve
Here's to Yours
And Here's to Mine.
Here's to Those
Time's Left Behind.
Here's to the Noo
And Here's to the Morrow.
Here's to Joy
To Hell with Sorrow.
My toast to the New Year, raise your glasses and drink to us all.
 Dec 2015 Aj Cuntapay
niamh
I sit on the step
And draw
The cold around me
Like a blanket,
Savouring the numbness
And the heat
That begins within.
Swallowed by the night
Drunk on wine
And stars.
Hot tears on cold cheeks.
Seasoning for
Chapped lips
Stinging
Bringing fresh tears.
I take refuge
In the silence,
Under the gaze of
Sympathetic eyes.
My friends.
My constant companions.
Drunk on wine
And stars.
 Dec 2015 Aj Cuntapay
topacio
my fingers have become bored with
the quicksand of routine
they prefer to dance erotically over my typewriter
frolicking like naked ballerinas
over an ancient stage
spilling their secret thoughts
onto blank page,
after their day job
threaded together
over my lap,
or bending over to
reveal the contents
of my burlap sack

they have taken instead
to jumping over cracks
in the nothing of night
stifling the sound of silence
with assortments of clicks and clacks
punching in the perfect pitch of keys
to leave Beethoven blind
from this symphony of notes combined

and just like that at last
they have unfolded some rhyme
unachievable with ink and pencil,
without the stencil of time
dictating to work inside the lines
he is not heaven. he is not a deep breath of fresh air after being
trapped inside for so long he is suffocation. when his saturated fingers
touch me I am filled with a never ending fire that keeps me
awake until two a.m. and makes me question everything I've
ever believed. he likes to swear up and down on the metal cross
around his neck and pretend he is God when he looks at me.
his kisses are never filled with love they are filled with narcotics
and taste like a bittersweet kind of hatred. he smokes quietly and
slowly inhaling every toxic fume and making clouds
big enough to convince you that they are skies. everything about him
screams shades of cool he is blue he is black his smile is gold
his eyes are grey and he is the color spectrum at its darkest.
he speaks quietly and laughs loudly and cries silently when
he thinks nobody can hear him. I wake up every morning to the
sound of tiny bullets of water scorching his back but he
likes the burn so I do not say a thing. he loves the way I sing
and teases me endlessly and whispers ****** things when
our friends are around because he is an exhibitionist.
I do not know what this is. I do not know who he is.
but at the same time I do not know who I am either,
we are cataclysmic together and wreak havoc wherever we go
but there is something so beautiful about what a disaster
we are together that i do not want to say goodbye.
he is the lover I never have to worry about loving back
and that if nothing else matters

(h.l.)

11.25.15
"oh **** i think i'm falling in love again. someone pass me the *****, this is going to be one helluva year"

colors by halsey
Have you ever stumbled upon someone life-shatteringly special?
You lose your breath and can't think straight.
But somehow they've stuck around.
Feeling like a stunned vegetable to your innocent charisma.

Like divine intervention we met in the most unlikely of ways.
We hit it off and spent hours together, confined and stressed.
How did we get along so well?
How did we manage to learn more together than alone?
How did we manage to find each other in this big world?
I'll always wonder if there is more to this story.
Answers to my plaguing questions that rule my emotional state.

I don't know how to describe what it is I feel in a rational way.
It doesn't serve rationale.
Writing it all down or saying it only compounds how crazy I must sound.
But I'm not a loony bin. On the contrary, you are just infinitely more special than you realise!

But I'll not skip a note nor bump a chord.
Because I see you so finely in all your elegance.
A beauty which radiates in an innocent manifestation.
I can't tell if everyone else can see it also.
They must?!
I must have no chance here.
I know I should cut my losses and move on.
Right..?
Hope to find this feeling once more.
But something from beyond the blackened ether of midnight skies and space dust tells me to keep trying.
© All Rights Reserved Jack Thompson 2015
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.
you picked me up in your mother’s white car, 7:30 pm almost two hours late

we drove around and ended up at the beach, sitting on the pier, words spilling out of our mouths making up for lost time

when the sunlight faded we walked down the shore until we saw the big dipper over the waves

you laid your beach towel right next to mine on the sand, it was the first time i started to wonder what you were planning

hours later we found ourselves tangled up in blankets and bodies and you traced your thumb in circles on my elbow, hot breath on my neck and we were so close, lips hovering, a precipice, nearly

and you almost had me, you almost got me

but when we were wrapped in each other's arms, staring at the waves, you whispered

i care about you, but this doesn’t mean a thing

i guess i never knew the stars could fall out of the sky like that, all at once

i wish i was something more to you than an object to be used, and the thing that keeps getting me is i thought you were incapable of treating other people like they didn’t matter, but you curled up in my skin and now it is all stretched out and shaped like you and i can’t fix it and i wish it didn’t matter but it matters, holy **** it matters

you drove me home at two in the morning and didn’t even turn on the radio, but when you parked in front of my mother’s house we both started saying words all at once and i wish i could’ve got to hear yours before i slammed the door in your face

i’ll always have a bruise that looks just like you

— The End —