You were always better in theory.
The images I created for myself,
the moments I wished we were in.
The hypothetical has no abrupt ending,
you see.

Once upon a time,
I believed you were telling me about 12-string guitars.
On my bed,
about how it's easier to play them because the strings are so close together,
it's like you can hit all the right notes without even trying.
You tried to make me sing that night.
But then I realized I had that conversation with someone else,
in a different setting completely.
It changes our ending,
you see.
The bed sang it's own lonely song that night.

I can tell myself all the right stories,
weave my own intricately, beautifully detailed and intoxicated rhythms,
but that won't bring you here.
Oh no, lord no boy,
that won't bring you anywhere closer to me,
to here, to now, to us, to a "we".

Did you know you're a ***** contradiction?
When my mind fills up with radar and S.O.S via sonar,
I go into hypertonic state;
my limbs are flailing to still,
to specific and intentional.
You move me to intentions.

My arms would rather be moving as they please
ebb and flow and high and low,
but instead,
my thumbs tap each key,
hoping to convey
every
single
possibility.
From the swift and
(oh haha)
to the lengthy
(could be everything, intention, soulquickheartbodymindlove)
my  breath is my burden.

Just understand,
I'm hurried to explain everything
that one person
can try to explain in one
single
lifetime.

I want you to understand my intention,
more then my action.
My words are my bond.
But so often, they are skewed.
They are stumbled.
They are misinterpreted.
They are human.
Take them as they are,
as they are meant to be.

The brain is never too old to learn new tricks.
Like how you eventually mold to every hand you hold,
even if you've never held it before
(especially if you hope to hold it for a long, long time).

Your neurons are always evolving and adapting,
from the first time you open your eyes and your retinas
(oh your retinasandconesandrodsandthereis
SO
MUCH
MORE
goingonbehindthesce­nesthanwegiveitcreditfor)
are pounded by light,
by images,
by focus and abstraction coming into clarity and comprehension.
Did you know that you can sing your way through a stutter?
I wish I could tell that to the heart palpitations
currently coursing through John Doe's ventricles.
But that's besides the point.

Your neurons, the same one you were born with, far fewer that you'll die with,
can rewire themselves.
Tell yourself you're dying enough times,
and maybe your brain will trick itself into living.

My words have gone walking again.
They got up and left,
slamming the door behind them.
I think it's been a long time coming and a slow spiral downwards;
lately I've been speaking in euphemisms and grandeur that only
I can make sense of
(maybe my jokes just stopped being funny to everyone around me).

My words have gone walking again.
They slipped out the open window,
caught a ride west and said,
"She'll be fine on her own. She always is."

Third times the charm,
my words have gone walking again.
They took off on a horse with no name
and hopped a train to Clarksville.
Alphabet soup has come to life,
but not with my choice in spoonerism.
My head's not quite in my hands,
but my shoulders are keeping it hinged.
Come back soon, my mouth feels empty
and my tongue has no flap nor tap left without you.

Sometimes I only think I drink so I'm brave enough to talk to you.
To let the swallows burn some courage into me,
tell me what I'm too afraid to tell myself.
Let me feel what I'm too afraid to feel, too ashamed to admit.
Not that I'm raging, nor am I addicted.
(But I bet that's what they all say).

*** and coke is my drink of choice.
Feel that sunshine on the sand, the paradise of a paradox.
Funny how I've never actually been to a real beach,
with a real ocean,
but pretend it's the only place I ever want to be.

You make me ashamed of myself.
I don't want to be your mistress, your last call before the lights go on.
I've never promised myself anything less than everything.
What I want, I make for myself.
Not my parents, not my sister, not for you, not for God.
I give myself a reason to exist.
My raging hormones
(loneliness from only conversing with disordered populations)
shouldn't be an excuse to be a second choice,
the one you can claim if the current girl "doesn't work out".

My spit is all over these words,
I picture them more as a slam then a reading.
I want you to feel my truth,
feel my crumble as the walls come down but bombs still drop.

I am not sleeping,
because I'm too busy thinking about which corner
God is going to jump out at me from.

"SURPRISE!
You've been looking for me for years".
(he'll say)
Gotcha!

And then I woke up.

1010.
I wonder what that means in binary.
Iloveyou.
thankyou.
yourpoetrysucks.
picklesonthemoon.
re­frigerator.

The night ended with Samson
(and Regina).

Sometimes my dreams smell like patchouli.
or car wrecks, or airports.
Exhaust fume, gasoline;
only when I'm dreaming of you, though.

I hit 1000.
2+ times,
but I hit it running and sputtering,
left it on the ground to come back to tomorrow.
Sorry,
I was just so exciting about having a thou,
in the sand.
Have people really come back to me, and kept scanning their eyes
over my pages?
Weird.

I like you better when you have a beard.