I like pens that bleed
Ink that smears
Girls with scars
Broken parts
***** clothes
Stained sheets
The hint of blood
The taste of lust
The smells of love
Nights through morning
Mornings to night
Suns that sleep
Moons that dream
And all the pretty
You hide underneath
Those pretty
Pretty
Pretty things

The dog and me, we'll find the sea
And run beside the waves
I'll slip on stones, he'll hunt for bones
Beside the sea, the dog and me.

Beside a fire, burning higher
Than any human pain could be
We'll slowly sleep, as embers leap,
And sorrows won't exist for me.

I'll find a dog as lost as me
And offer him my bones.
And if he loves me, tired and small,
We'll share a life, our love, our all.

The dog and me, we'll find the sea
That washes broken love away.
I'll wake for him; he'll wait for me.
We'll always be; the dog and me.

It finally occurred to me
that some spaces
have the ability
to be mean
- brutal, even.
Like the spaces
resting
between our lips.
Like the spaces
occupied
by oceans
and countries
and pure **** air
that limit us
from fitting
our hands
together.