You make me think of poetry -
the type that doesn't deserve to be written in ink.

I sing hymns about the way you twirl a cigarette stick between your thumb and your forefinger.

My spine tingles whenever your mouth curves slightly upward; your left eyebrow arched in derision.

You make me hold my breath when you tilt your head in my direction, your gaze full of dark promise.

You captivate me - mind, body, and soul.

My girl builds coffins
For the days that the sun
doesn't rise
And the night is void of light

She makes a nest, a niche
of some sort
At the bottom of a bottle

Sometimes she goes up in flames.

And then-
She smiles a little too wide
Talks a little too much
Until she falls down in a stupor
Still-
she laughs
She laughs and laughs
Until-
Nothing.

She gazes at her reflection,
Sometimes.
Her eyes are wide and blank
as she stares at the post-apocalyptic wasteland of her soul

And i cry, i cry
I have to cry
For my beloved knows
To what extent sadness goes
But when morning comes
She hides her coffins
Underneath the layers
Of bravado and flippancy-

And smiles,
Just a little bit too little.

Am I a mere word in your complex web
of amassed sentences?
If the roles were reversed,
if you were mine,
you would be the dog-eared page
which I'd admire the most.
You would be the string of words
I'd keep on repeating on my head
like a broken record.

But somehow,
despite being the phrase
I hold in highest regard -
you, too, were the phrase
which I could not grasp
in the end.

You became incomprehensible;
you started making less sense
in my mind,
until I could no longer understand.

--
-
And now the ink runs out of
the proverbial pen.
The tips of my fingers
are permanently stained black and blue
And I mouth the prose you left
on my lips
as I watch you leave
the world we made
for just us two.

Shall we fall in love with everything?

Shall I sing love songs about the raucous noises alley cats make?
Or maybe reverently inhale the heavy infusion of smoke and dust that hangs in the air like a suffocating raincloud.

Should I utter wishes under my breath
whenever luminous bodies of light
fall down from the night skies?
And do I keep on wondering why
the stars always seem to make goodbyes-

(Always, when you pass by)

I do often wonder about what-might-have-been's that will never be
As I sit alone in the sea of so many
Yet I promised that I will not let myself
be a sad remnant of maybe

But I am.
And you are just another fragment of my memory,
lost in a state of perpetual possibility.

I'll love you in the downtown alley, I'll love you along the bay;
I'll love you in that small town where my heart still longs to stay.

I do not attempt to justify my existence-
I get whimsy over the things that I find.
It must be the flickering of my bedside light,
my dreams of dancing under the pale moonlight
(my sanity in the precipice of my mind)

You tell me about the frivolity of human life
I'd be inclined to agree,
if it weren't for the fact that
you went under the knife
and chose to remain oblivious
rather than putting up a fight
(my sanity in the precipice of my mind)

See, I once had dreams of becoming a lover
Of life, of chance, and of a higher being
In the belief that I'd find a purpose
greater than the gnawing emptiness that
resides in me
(my sanity in the precipice of my mind)

But some days I drown myself
in the words of Kerouac
or a bottle of Jack-
Either way I'd find myself paralyzed,
sick and left to my own devices
I have burnt down the turret of my life
(my sanity in the precipice of my mind)
How do I accept my feeling of insignificance?
Lost in a place of doubt and indecision,
I am without relevance.
The childlike quality of my dreams
is no longer enough to sustain me.
My sanity, my sanity-
What am I without my sanity?




Find me; find me
(I seem to have lost my mind)