I feel you like
                        slamming
                                doors.
I see you in
                    the same
                                shifting focus as
when I take off my glasses
                  too quick.
I hold you like I make
fifty                               dollars
                  a week.
                                                          "I miss you"
I scream into my pillow.
                                            "I miss you too" you whisper back
        in prayers
in dreams
                   in your arms wrapped around me
as I cry into your neck.

I want you here: you
                            tell me: I'm beautiful.
these slow steps that I'm taking (toward you)
(away from you) I'm learning your name
easier than cleaning a fish bowl
harder than saying it out loud
easier than writing it down
harder than taking birth control
or wanting to,
because I'm not interested in ***
at this age:
in this age I'm younger than those actions
older than those thoughts,
lost in a limbo, found swinging from a bar,
skipping down a street, turning down what I can't see
"no thank you"

I can hear you.
                              "I'm listening"
     I can't hear you.
"you're screaming"

your face,
                 in the mirror: "you're beautiful"
your face,
                    in the street: "I'm disgusting"

sincerely,
                because I know you're quiet when you're unhappy
because you're trying to tie knots with broken fingers
          because your eyes reflect blue in the shadows of your smile
because you're more than any fabric, soaked in any chemical thought
                                                                                                                    (or feeling)
because the islands of you create an escape better than the moon.

Sincerely, because you're you.

where do I fit
in a place like this?

this is where I wake up:
the next morning
everything has changed.

I had to leave for inspiration:
that's where I practiced
mind expansion.

even there, I wondered,
with my head split open
to all sides of the city,
does he see the same love in me,
that I do in him?

I didn't ever want to leave.

"let's spend our time in here forever.
if not in love, in discovery of that love.
in the end: take it with us,"
I thought these things in grids
of hand prints stretched to the ocean,
for miles I thought, but never spoke.

it hurts to learn why
we dream in silence.

you can die whenever you want,
but you can't live.

matching sweaters:
it was nice to see you today.

lumps of cat fur scattered over
the **** carpet of my brothers
hallway.

he says he's going to give me
a hug tomorrow.

I don't know what to say
as I stare at his unshaved face.
His eye's are more worn than
the voices that scream up the
stairs to him. He looks at me
as if he's trying to memorize:

this moment:
t   r   u  t   h
   r  u   t   h  t  r  u  t  h
      u  t  h  t  r   u  t   h  
         t  h  t  r  u  t  h
            h  t  r u  t h
               t  r  u  t  h
                       p
                          o
                             u
                                r
                             ­     s
                                      out.

these open spaces were born the same way we were:
                                         only opposite.

Two of us
going nowhere
in a box
on a wheel
crammed in
waiting to go

we chat
about nothing
I can remember

coming to the end
we realize our
mutual enjoyment

you give me your name
which
I slip it into my pocket
anxious to see you
though we have not parted

gone
from my pocket
from my memory
griffin?
taylor?

only me , ****

even when I'm with you I miss you,
but I try really hard not to when you're gone.

I keep trying to love you less,
or love you different,
but I can't.

I need some more:
s                              p

                  a
     ­                                  c
        e.

I want some more:

s                              x.
               e

....just kidding, I don't even really know what it means
up until now I've only ever really thought of it as
the ugly little sister of movie scenes

don't get me wrong, I've always been fond of words that rhyme
I'll sit and search for similes
sniff out a metaphor from time to time

but in terms of poetry writing, writing poetry I should say
I never know where to start or
what's just ******* or what's okay

so I'm stuck in trial and error, there are no set of rules
It seems I've started building a house
but have yet to acquire the tools

so on I'll feel into the darkness, it really is a sin...
is this poem destined for greatness
or just destined for the bin?!

I guess this is about someone else,
but I want it to be about you for nostalgic purposes.

there's something different about wanting to touch your face and actually doing it.
that's how it always is.
you're the black-ink-on-paper-to-get-you-out-of-my-head kind of guy,
you're the never awake past noon because you don't want to deal with reality kind of mind,
you're one of those half-drunk, half-broken, half-idon'tcarebecauseyoudon'tcare kind of lovers.

one day I'm going to quit everything.


the cat laps milk
instead of water
from the palm of a mothers hand,
it's rough tongue leaving
purple lines
broken and deep
like the stretch marks that map her body.

She'll talk to me about her children
and the little things in her life that don't seem to matter much anymore,
and we'll watch people and assume things like people do,
and we'll kiss each other out of boredom
and she'll tell me to braid her hair,
because she wants to feel young again,
and I'll tell her to read me her story,
because I want to feel closer,
and she'll tell me about the cat
and she'll let me pet it
but she wont let me sleep in her bed
or put away the dishes
or kiss her on the days that she wears lipstick.

She reminds me of you,
except she's something I can feel.

I feel like your lips,
and everything beneath them,
belong to me.

I feel like your fingers,
and I want to feel your fingers,
on my lips,
and everything underneath the sheets.

I want to smell like warm tea,
and taste like smooth cream,
and I want you to open my eyes
to your lucid dream.

If you want to spend your time under trees,
I get it,
and if you don't want to waste your time in the same ways,
I get it.
But if you want to hold me,
and mumble ***** secrets that I don't understand to my shoulder,
or smile so that I can feel it on my lips,
then I don't.

We can eat the same food,
and inhale the same breath,
but no matter what happens at night,
it wont matter in the morning.