always so predictable - retreat to the bathroom

and brush your teeth, reapply the deodorant

for another round. slink back through the door -

cracked enough to let the moans slip out and echo

into the unfurnished house. attempt - and fail

to arouse me with a probing tongue, and whisper

the same compliments that no longer impress.

pause. ******. resume.

lay me on my back or push me up against

the curtained window, it makes no difference to me anymore,

I’ll just close my eyes and pretend, making more noise

in pain than in pleasure. and when I tell you to

come, it’s a plea more for my sake than yours.

Every stranger on the street
has sunk deep into the night at least once,
or twice, and I'd wager
that at times their thoughts have unfurled
into black dishrags soaking up
the insignificant amounts
of vivacity-
pouring pride into the sewer,
praying desperately to recover.

Eventually, time pries a crack
into the soul, and peels back
the skin of morality until the lines
no longer meet and the mind
reels- searching for the baseline
of sanity- save me, someone
save me.

Self-respect is not me dismissing
my own emotions, it is not
excusing unprotected *** and disrespectful
texts because the ****** is better
than the silence;

no--- self-respect is not me crawling
down the street to fake-sleep
beside your smug form, only so that I may
cab home the next day and nap
away the pain;

self-respect is not what I have given myself
these past eight months, but I promise to fight
now because if you believe this poorly
labeled, loosely constructed
relationship allows you to **** her
with your clothes on in the corner
of the dance floor
while I am five feet from your
disgraceful ******* self, then I can find
the strength to delete every pleasant
memory from the place in my brain
that's been holding me back;

there are so many inches of my body and
my soul that you will never know (not that you
even thought to pry) and I will keep them safe
for the next deserving guy

back-to-back in a bed fit
for one we are two
separate bodies rolled apart.

And it seems this time I'm choking

Not on the falling tears
But on the rising fears

That loneliness is the only thing
         that lasts
Forever

Emptiness is less
a symptom, and more a mode
of pure rehearsal.

I say, "I love you,"
you say, "te amo."

I wrote a poem
but it seemed hollow.*

I'm starting to see that we are not
so imperfect, but rather, only
different.

I'm still waiting to age, still learning
to gauge with the dynamics we create - you
speaking a language so foreign, it seems
that you speak sweet
to me
but I fail to believe
you say what you mean.

It's as though the weight of the phrase
"I love you"
hangs heavy with the ones
who came before you;

it reminds me of airport goodbyes, of late-night
confessions on Facebook - sleepy and
painfully honest,

it reminds me of another story,

"I love you" has significance, a ponderance, an expectation,
a manner in which I can predict
the things you think behind those unsmilingly
eyes, but "te amo"

"te amo" is Rihanna, it's an utterance on a evening
beach, it's a reflexive simple present
tense, conjugated with practice, and now
it's my haven,
my integration, you have become
engrained in my conversations.

I hunger for all
the words you will never say-

the good in goodbye

Last night I dreamt

of you, you and I said goodnight

and you went to your room and I

to mine, where you proceeded to touch

yourself and I, I too

touched myself - and we both touched

ourselves to sweaty memories of us

in the blue room/

in the old house/

in the early months

of a young love that came unraveled.

I foolishly thought
recovery
was the point past which
I no longer reached
for Kleenex, yet it seems
you still follow me
in the back of my throat
causing me to choke
from time to
time, and occasionally
I spit you up [the bile that you are],
and I want so much
to be free from you,
but in my moments
of weakness,
I swallow you up -
whole again - I know no
different, you are the beginning
and the end.

[my memories are not
loose threads
that catch passing through
the doorways]

you are not
something I despise, and yet
I no longer sacrifice
parts
of my well-being
for your
shallow communication/
your subconscious lies;

if you cannot define yourself,
then do not wait for me
to redefine my life-
waiting-

there is something remarkable
about you, and it took me
too long
to realize that what I saw
in you
was an image
from within
my own mind;

you were only ever
human,
a creation of my own
exaggeration