Here's the thing.
I like boys.
But
I love girls.
It's a moralistic tragedy
but I can't tell whose morals
are telling me what's right.  
It's not about what's right, let's
talk about what's wrong.  7 years ago
When that boy shoved me backwards.
When he thought I didn't have a choice.

I have a choice.
Don't tell me my choice is wrong.  

Because Her hair falls in her face like
the dripping branches of my sycamore
after a long night's storm.
People say she's not delicate,
rough around the edges, if you will,
but when I hold her head in my lap
and run my fingers through her hair
it's like that same rain is washing away
every rough edge of the bark on her skin.
Her skin--feels like--with her hands on mine
the world might just implode on itself
from the sheer beauty of such
living
glorious
sin.

"The hardest part was not--
Inevitable goodbyes seep
through the cracks
of our fingers
Curling up and around
your face
loopsy, drunk eyes
half a smile
of tormented seams
ripping our fingers
apart
--to fall in love with
you."

I failed.
So did she.

Now all we have are
words
that don't build a
bridge
to walk across the
waves.
that fold under another
and another and another

ruined voices.
fading photographs.
exposed.
let's hold hands.
discard our clothes.
even if it doesn't mean
anything.
Will you write me poetry?
Will you pick me flowers?
Will you kiss me
when my hair is greasy,
I haven't showered in days,
and my eyes are bloodshot
from a lack of sleep
and too much coffee?
Then,
it might be love.

The silence mocks me
deafeningly clique;
writing the thoughts--
for whose ears?
mixed emotions
a face
a smile
lines that crinkle
around your eyes
what to say--
the words
mock me
like this quiet.
quiet room.
of---------

Where do the words come from?
Where is your inspiration?
Where is the one that said,
I
Love
You.

Really?
Really, are you sure?
Do you want to fall
in
love
with
this.

I don't think you do.

The umbrella that I have
keeps away the rain.
But it's broken.
It doesn't pop up
the right way.

it's slightly off kilter.
like us.
like me.
like you,
like the rest of the
world.

but it works.
it keeps away the rain.

3 words. Sum up your life for me.
That's a broad question.  My cat died.
3 more.
I was lost.
Where? Why?
Does it Matter?
Yes.

I want words. Real words. Words that sink through time, surrounding your soul in one fleeting moment. Lost, among the nostalgic sentiment of your past. That, is what I want.

I trust you, amidst the angst of one adolescent voice. I Cry, I Wish, I Hope, I Dream.  Though they tell me not to.  Crying is sad, and Wishing is futile, and Hoping isn't doing.  Dreaming is far from reality.

But.

Crying is real.  Wishes are the hopes of childhood, and Dreams are the reality:
a fairy tale,
a pretty dress,
a handsome prince,
a cleaned up mess.

Beautiful Hands.
Music floating through
the room.
Each note
Each pause
Each emotion
A place I can tell.
I could write--

if not for what he said.
or what he did say.

The rain.
The falling.
The flowers.
The green.
The life.
The death.
The Living.

I wish I made
--beautiful things.
that people heard.
or read.
or saw.
that changed the way
they see
the world.

words can change
people.
right?
--I hope.

I  think we died together.
It was 3 years ago.
When we took each other's
innocence.
And ran.
There's no one to blame.
But I'm far from the same.
And You're still stuck.
And I can't breathe
when I think about
forever.

Do you remember the day you didn't
kiss me?  And I smoked another joint
and coughed.  And you rolled a spliff
and the words we were so terrible at
speaking came strolling off our tongues
like the innocent sunrise we ignored come
up out the window above as the
morning brought us sleep.  You
brought me coffee and smoked cigarettes
in bed.  I read my book and played with
your hair.  There were no reasons
to hurry but an unkissable love
for words, cigarettes,
and words.