My bed feels so empty without you in it.

Even if nothing
Ever comes from this.
If that is all I get,
It will be nice
To remember something beautiful.
If all I ever get
Is that moment in your arms,
Then I have lived a thousand years,
And I have led a thousand lives.

I'm not exactly sure what love is.
I don't know what it is supposed to feel like.
But I know this.
Every time I see you,
My palms start sweating uncontrollably
And I wonder how in hell
I am ever supposed to hold your hand
If being yards away from you
Does that to me.
When I see you,
I swear "Dream Weaver" starts playing
In my head.
Whenever I see you,
I feel like I have to puke,
And it's the best feeling ever.
Every time I am done
Spending time with you,
I have to *** right away from nervousness.
But there's not a single person
I am more comfortable around.
When I am around you,
I spend more time
Covering up the teeth I'm so insecure of
Than I do talking to you.
I don't do that around anyone else,
But then again,
No one makes me laugh as much as you do.
When I see you,
I start thinking of different cheesy quotes
From different cheesy Rom-Coms,
And pray to God
That you haven't seen those movies,
So on the one in a billion chance
That I am actually brave enough to say something,
You won't realize how unoriginal I am.
Whenever I am with you,
And you ask me if I agree with what you said,
I'm lying.
I have no idea what you've just said.
I was too busy counting the wrinkles
Around your eyes
(Because wrinkles are my favorite, you know).
When you hug me,
I feel like crying.
WHY DO I FEEL LIKE CRYING?!
I have no idea what love is.
But let me tell you,
This feels pretty **** close.

These paint strokes
Birth poetry--
Art competing for art,
When all you want
Is to be a great artist,
But you are pulled
From morning
To night
With every cycle of the moon.
You've no friends left,
And all you have left to wear
Is a pair
Of canvas shoes
And a pair
Of paper wings.
A sound like
A baby crying
Calls you out into the streets.
You pull on your paper wings,
And step out into the rain.

He spies her in the crowd,
The girl he had hoped to forget.
Her bones are still as delicate
And her breathing
Just as shallow
As when he saw her last.
At night
She is most beautiful,
For she always raises her eyebrows
A bit higher
Once the moon shows face.

The air here smells like cigarettes,
The water tastes like wine,
The rooms reek of asphyxiation,
But everyone is fine.
In the bathroom is a bathtub,
Adorned with a ring of blood,
The walls, decorated with a yellow stain,
From an unattended flood.
The food inside the kitchen,
Is no more than butts and ash,
The pantry, filled with Sylvia's books,
The sink, a pile of trash.
The dark of the room is passion,
Anger and beauty and romance,
One moment there is weeping,
Then fighting, then time to dance.
"Where are we?" you may ask?
This is the artists' home.
Evidence of painting together,
And poetry written alone.
You thought it might be beauitful,
With color and sun and flowers.
You had no plan at all to find
Men self-sabotaging for hours.
Oh, you thought the walls would show
Van Gogh, not evidence of mourners.
Yes, well, Vincent is still here:
He is the man bleeding in the corner.

I miss teenage romance
(Or was it lust?)
When the only end goal
Was ***.
Before the *** was ever had.
Back to a time
Before we knew
We had emotions,
Before we knew
There would be consequences.
Before we worried
About the morning after,
Before we worried
About the pieces of ourselves
We might leave in their bed.
Before we cared
About whether or not
They would hold us throughout the night,
Before we ever cared
About forever.

There are three beautiful people
In my life.
One I am in love with,
One I am in lust with,
And one I can not move on from.
One has my whole body,
One consumes my every thought,
And the other holds my heart.
I often wonder what would happen,
If I walk away from it all
And leave it all behind.
Move some place new,
Find a new lover,
And start a new life.
But even I know,
That a change of scenery,
Never truly changes a situation.
For every time I stand in the shower,
And the water droplets
Run down
Between my *******,
One face returns to me.
And every night,
When I close my eyes,
And the midnight air brings
The deepest thoughts to my mind,
Another face appears.
When I walk the park in evening,
Trying to clear my mind,
Of the troubles of today,
And I see two beautiful lovers,
Nestled together on a bench,
I see that face,
Staring right at me.
Clear as day,
Never blurred.

At the end of the day,
There are other beautiful men
And other gorgeous women
In the world.
At the end of the day,
Your kiss
Will not be the last one
I ever taste.
At the end of the day,
I know that some other
Pretty face
Will one day catch my eye.
At the end of the day,
You will not be
The only one
To ever make my sides hurt
With laughter.
At the end of the day,
I actually can
Listen to that song
Without crying.
At the end of the day,
I am sure that
I will find
Someone else
Exactly like you.
At the end of the day,
I know
That you are not
The last person
That I will ever love.
But at the end of the day,
No one,
No one,
Will ever have my heart
The way that you do.

She believed in love and Jupiter,
And everything in between.
Yet the earth betrayed her
In failing to give her a home.
Which is why she bared her chest
To every last element,
Hoping that the dust
Filled all of the cracks in her skin,
And praying that the moon
Tasted as sweet as she remembered.

We don't talk all that much these days.
In fact, we don't talk at all.
But I'll never forget
When we were kids
And our secret dream,
To run away together.

The dream grew brighter
When it turned into a plan.
We had our bags packed and ready to go.
A pair of jeans and a sweater,
My guitar so we could busk,
One **** dress in case times got hard,
And the money
Your mother hid in her dresser.
We'd take the train,
Get the hell out of here,
And never look back.
We said I'd cut my hair,
So they would never find us.

We never quite knew
What we were running away to be.
Rockstars, hookers,
Crackheads, or movie stars.
We didn't care.
We were young and wanted an out,
And the city
Was calling our names.

We never did run away.
I guess I knew all along
That we never would.
But I don't regret any of it.
Any of the planning,
Any of the dreaming.
Because that dream,
That hope of an out,
The idea of there being an escape
No doubt kept me going.

I still think about you often,
And our run away dream.
We were dreamers alright.
Or maybe we just hated this town.
Maybe we were just young.
Maybe we read too many books
And watched too many movies.
Or maybe it all goes back
To that same song.
The one where he stands outside
Her bedroom window
And begs her to come outside.
"Come outside,"
He'd say,
"Come outside.
Out the window,
Down the fire escape,
And run away with me."

You're angry again.
You came home again,
The smell of whiskey and frustration
On your breath,
Ready to remind me
Of everything I do wrong.
You start with the yelling.
But the yelling I can take.
It's when you start to throw things--
The lamp, the plates, the chairs--
That my heart begins to ache.
I never fear you hurting me--
Nothing you've ever thrown has striked.
But it's the way you throw things
Without a care
Of which items you toss and break,
But never once
Do you let go
Of the bottle in your hand.
Objects fly across the room,
But you never loosen your grip
On the neck of your bottle.
You hold it and never let it go,
The same way you promised
You would do to me
When I was still young and beautiful.
You promised.
You said you'd hold me
And never let me go.
I envy your bottle,
And long to once again
Be the one between your fingers.
But you will never love me as much
As you love that glass and whiskey.

You have charcoal on your eyelids
And dust inside your heart,
Your blood, stale and thicking,
Your mind quickly falling apart.
Yet your beauty is astonishing,
With your crooked hair and shaggy teeth,
A million miles inside your eyes,
Telling stories of love and grief.
I spotted you from afar,
And I hoped that you were him,
But when you turned and showed your face,
My light of hope went dim.
You were not the man I was looking for,
And I doubt if I shall find him again,
I just thought to tell you that you are still beautiful,
Just a man amongst the thousands of men.

She was gone before the sun arose.
I don't know when she left my bed,
But I know that she was here.
For though her imprint on my mattress
Has cooled and faded,
Her lipstick stains show bright on my pillow,
Two ******, mirroring arches
On a field of snow
I clearly recall
Her icy, cold fingertips on my spine
Waking me up twice in the night
Before I found the morning
Without her there.

I hate every last bit of this.
All I want is to love you,
But you have no interest in being loved.
Sweetheart,
I am so tired of these games.
This party has grown old,
These lies have turned stale.
Tell me honestly how old are we??
I do not wish to throw accusations at you.
You are as free as you wish to be.
Your decisions are your own.
But tell me now that you do not love me,
So I can try all I can to walk away,
To move on,
Without you.
Without you.
I know you do not love me,
But my foolish heart remains hopeful.
So please tell me,
That I might lay this foolish heart to rest.

*I will always love you.

Does it so much matter
Who we are
As it matters that we are.
That we are at all,
Anything at all??
For I am content,
With a blind existence,
As long as I can see you
Existing along side me.
In darkness I know
Not what we are,
But I feel you breathe beside me,
And that alone fills me up.

I've scrubbed off all the makeup,
Stripped of all my clothes.
I have to face my body,
Bony and blue,
Still so young,
But visibly aging.
I'd give anything
To see myself
In true state again.
The I that I was,
Young, pure, and untouched.
The I before the first sense
Of self awareness,
The I before that first
Cool, innocent cigarette,
The I before that first secret drink,
The first forced kiss,
The first basement time alone,
The first walk home to not my home,
The first flirt,
The first sneak out,
And the paranoia that came with it all.
I haven't seen that I
In far too long,
Nor do I know if I'll see her
Ever again.
But sometimes it's nice to try,
To break myself down
To my rawest state
In hopes of finding her once more.
So I'm just standing here.
Naked and my face scrubbed raw,
Being stung by those tears
I tried so hard to avoid,
Looking my I in the eye
And whispering,
"You're still in there.
I know you are.
You're still in there."
God, I hope.

Where do we stand??
Where do we stand??
You tell me.
For we both know
That a single kiss
Can mean everything,
And a single kiss
Can mean nothing at all.
So you tell me,
My dear,
Which was ours??

To see you
Is to face the terrible fear
That you truly did give me
The best days of my life.
The fear
That that really was
The best I will ever have.
That my time is over,
That you were my only chance,
That I will never find anything
So beauitful again.
Shame.
I am still quite young
And have many more days to go.
That really can not be all,
Can it??

Angel dust
And angel lust
Sleeping with false hopes
Of trust
Like coming down
From ecstasy
While the mother
Fades off next to me.
Finger nails
And powder trails
Forgetting about Larry's
Cautionary tails,
Of summers of bare chests
And teenage ***,
Of young flowers
Hung around our necks.
Getting wasted
Being tasted
Growing up so rushed
And hasted.
Like selling out
Our souls to space
Innocence gone
Without a trace.

I need a midnight walk,
With foggy air,
Rock and roll,
And cigarettes.
I was so young.
I don't know why
I did any of those things.
Something about wanting to feel something.
Anything.
But looking back,
I had never felt anything more beautiful.
I need a ride from a stranger,
I need the hope of an out,
Street lights,
Cracked lips and tears,
Anything to feel alive again.

All the boys talk about her
In the locker room.
They talk about her body,
And her lips,
And they all have different stories.
Sometimes I think I've seen a different girl.
The girl I see at school
Seems much different
From the girl in all the stories.
She seems shy
And sad faced daily.
I can't picture her doing all these things.
I can't even picture her at a party.
I ran into her in the hallway once.
She was coming out of the bathroom,
And it looked like she'd been crying.
I smiled at her,
But she turned her face away.
I've never even heard her speak.
But these guys tell a different story.
They love her,
They say,
They love her,
Because she'll try anything once
If you ask her.

She smells like the summers of India,
Heat radiating from her skin,
Her eyes two green planets on our own.
I can see her through the window,
Wrapping paper thin Egyptian cotton
Tightly around her *******.
I know not to stare,
But her beauty wraps its fingers around my neck.
When she is finished she will stand back,
Gaze at herself in the mirror.
She just might cry,
Like I have seen her do nights before.
In early morning
She will step onto the balcony.
Rising before the dew touches the earth.
I know not the first thing about her,
Save the glory of her beauty.
Perhaps I shall never know more.
No,
I know not the first thing about her,
But she loves to watch the sun rise.

I am not allowed to love you.
And so I do not.
I do, however,
Love the way you greet me.
I love the way you laugh.
I love how angry you get
When the radio plays the wrong song.
I love your teeth.
I love your conviction.
I love how paranoid
You can be at times.
I love the way you love to live.
I love your angry fits.
I love the way you talk about others.
I love how happy you get
When recalling random stories.
I love your confidence.
I love your strange habits.
I love how fearless you are.
I love the way
You defend until it destroys you.
I love it.
I love it all.

I am not allowed to love you.
And so I do not.
There is, however,
A small, timid part of me
That would love for you to read this
So you could know
How much I really do.

You said it was nothing
When you kissed her.
That a kiss doesn't mean a thing.
But I wish it did.
I wish a kiss meant everything.
I'd give anything for that reassurance
That all those times you kissed me,
That you felt everything.
That it meant something.
Or anything at all.

It's your choice.
It always has been.
I don't beg people to stay,
Nor do I stick around
Where I'm not wanted.
I just hope you know
I was ready to give you the world.
You already were mine.

I long to be beside you again.
You with your waist-long hair,
Black as the Arizona night sky
You slept under,
Showing me just exactly
Where the mountains mourn your people.
You taught me
How to speak to the moon
So she can hear me.
You said,
"This earth is our mother.
Let her cradle you,
Hold you close to her breast.
Love her back.
Because too many never did."

Do I love you??
Why are you asking me this??
Do I love you??
I love the things you say.
I love the things you do.
But do I love you??
Sometimes I think I do.
Sometimes I tell myself
To just accept my love for you,
To give myself permission to fall deeply in love.
To allow myself happiness for a change,
And to sink into something beautiful.
Yet other times, I find myself thinking
That perhaps I am just lonely.
Perhaps I just miss you.
Perhaps it is just nice to have someone to talk to.
Perhaps it is the fact
That every time we speak
It is three in the morning,
And deny it all you want,
But you know **** well that that makes a difference.
Perhaps I just love the nostalgia from when we were kids.
I do love it.
I love the memories.
I love those years.
I love the feelings they left behind.
But do I love you??
Do I love you??
Oh darling.
Ask me no questions,
And I tell you no lies.

What is the purpose anymore
Of writing hopeful love letters to you?
Nothing more than a box filled with papers
Set aside to never be looked at again.
No stamp will ever cling to them,
No kiss shall ever seal them.
They serve me no purpose,
They bring me no answers.
Instead I write letters to her,
Some as simple as little reminders:
That you like your eggs overcooked,
That the color orange makes you naseous.
That you only drink tea with cream,
And that the ocean makes your heartache.
To remember to wake you
With kisses upon your eyelids,
And always before the sun rises.
Still I find myself writing more than reminders.
At night, when the moon stops speaking,
And the crickets will not answer,
I write her pleads.
I set aside my pride,
And find myself begging.
I beg her to please hold you tightly when you sleep,
To please forgive your stubborn, irrational fits,
I beg her to cherish your soul more than gold,
To wipe away your tears when you think about your mother.
And at the end of every letter I write,
I bow my knees down on these pages,
And on my knees I beg her.
I beg her to please love you.
To love you the way you deserve to be loved.
To love you as much as I always have,
In the way I never could.

I'm trying to feel at home here.
Sitting in your kitchen,
Staring across at you,
Dipping my fingers
In this lavender pool
And adorning my fingertips
With candle wax hoods.
It's been three months
And I'd thought I'd be better by now.
But your lights still seem too yellow
And your milk still tastes like water.

You're busy reading the back of your new album,
And I think you've forgotten I'm here.
Your grandmother sobs
In the room next to us.
I take two deep breaths
Of the custard air in the room
Before I can quietly say,
"Um. Your grandmother is crying again."
A pause.
"She does that alot,"
You say, never once looking from your album.
"Oh."
I allow the space between us to fill again.
"W-why does she do that?"
A pin just dropped.
"She just does.
Every time she thinks of Palisades Park.
Which is often."
"Oh."

Something inside of me feels sad.
Something inside of me is angry at you
For not caring.
Why don't you go to her
And tell her it's alright?
Remind her that the mail comes again tomorrow,
And maybe she'll have something in the morning.
But no.
You don't even move.
I look down at this candle,
Cratered like the face of the moon.
I stand up and walk out.
You don't even notice.

The lamp is the life support of this room,
Barely giving light in orange tones,
Your grandmother a lump on the couch.
I stare at her from a distance,
In this room that does not feel like home either.
Slowly and nearly tip-toed, I approach the couch.
My body is shaking,
But I sit down beside her.
She does not turn, she does not stir,
But she tries to hush her sobs.

I’ve tried to feel at home here.
But no matter how many times your mother says it,
“Make yourself at home, sweetheart.”
I still feel the need to ask permission
To even turn on the TV,
And your father is still
The single most intimidating man I know.

This isn't home.
This will never be.
The itch will always stay.
Forever will I long for my staircase,
And the study,
And my home.
I try, but this is not home.
I look at your grandmother once more,
Seeing bits of her break
With each sob.
I reach out and hold her hand,
"It's alright,"
I say,
Though nothing is alright.
"It's alright,"
I say,
"It's okay."

When I stand beside you two,
It takes everything inside of me
To smile and tell you I am well.
But when I see you walk away,
I wonder how I ever thought
That this would not hurt like hell.