I can barely talk about you without my tongue
swelling up and my jaw clench too tight,
because no matter how much you like me
you're always going to love her.
You're apologizing for things you're never going to stop doing,
angrily saying you're sorry just because you think you should
even thought you know in time you'll be saying
the same lines over again.
You're an addiction that never leaves,
punching the glory out of my own self pride
washing the dignity away with every time
you show me what it's like to love somebody all wrong.
And no matter how much you like me,
no matter how many temptations you give into
or how many vulnerable nights you let me in
you're always going to love her.

I search for a star in your stomach sometimes,
seeing maybe the glow of it will radiate up your throat
onto your lips so I can kiss some celestial honesty
some reminder that maybe way deep down you feel for me
the way I always feel for you.
I caress your body catastrophe for some care,
feel your skin for some skipped heartbeat or uneven pulse
some gentle cue that maybe underneath it all you wouldn't want me to walk away
like I've thought about doing so many times.

It all collects to the poignant moment where I realize,
that never wanting to hurt somebody doesn't mean you won't
that believing in somebody doesn't mean they believe in themselves
and nakedly holding someone after beautiful movement intoxication
isn't love.
Finding something to cling to among the wreckage isn't some meaning,
hoping that one day maybe I'll be the one
isn't love.
It's a heavy like mixed with wanting to heal oneself with another.
It's a backwards devotion that takes shape in the awe of each other.
It's nothing worth giving life to if it's just messing with someone
you might honestly care for,
because you can't have the one you actually want.
It's buying time until the real thing comes home.
It's using someone
you might honestly care for,
because you can't stand the idea of being alone.
And it hurts, deeper than I know you ever meant it to
knowing your fake love is a lesson I never learned
and no matter how much you like me,
you're always going to love her.

we never write as much when we are in love
and if we do write as much, we never write the same way
we get so much more boring
we could write a sad poem every day
and it would be much more interesting than an
everything-is-perfect poem
happiness has very little substance
have you ever noticed that most mainstream music is
aggressively depressing?
we write when there's something missing
or when we feel cold toward the world
and want to stick it to the man with a good 'ol *******
a writer in love will only produce a masterpiece if who they love
doesn't love them back
falling in love with someone that loves you back feels like having
everything you need
and there becomes no reason to write because there is no need to write
most people feel misunderstood when they're sad
and people only want to soak themselves in art if it makes them feel
understood
so, art has got to be sad too, hasn't it?

I guess this means its over.
I told you not to contact me
if you were haply and happily seeing someone else.
I haven't heard from you,
so I guess you are making a go of it
wherever you are in that big District.

Does she know your affinity for public restrooms?
Does she love your little hands like I did?
(Maybe mine are just big?)
Do you call her darlin' when you hang up the phone
and does her stomach fall out of her bottom
when she catches even the slightest glimpse of you
in that dashing tuxedo you're so proud of?

I still have your cuff links.
Those stupid pieces of silver mock me on my bookshelf
next to the copy of your favorite book I still can't
bear to pick up and read.
You said to read it to understand you, but I don't know if I want to-
understand you or read it, that is.
You told me to return them when I was ready.
I'm ready, but you're nowhere to be found.
What happens now?
I'm convinced you're the one I'm supposed to
put all of my money on, and
You've always been a betting man.

I wish to return to the days long completed
when the strangest fantasies lived only in our dreams.
Now there is no more fantasy within the lidded eye.
Sleep exists only as respite from this cruel life.

We find extravagance and folly in every gilded screen.
What use is there then, for unconscious sconces within the mind,
where we can tuck away originality
until it sprouts and spreads like ivy on a British house.

We cast away any respite from this mundane wonder,
staying eager to see what else there is to see
until nothing is left of our ivy covered minds
except for meager impressions of what once was.

People who wait much further down the road
will one day walk back to this forgotten hideaway.
They will see the traces of what was
but they won’t be able to piece together
our lost lives of slumber.

And so the real unselfish tragedy,
is not our decline-
but the ensuing confusion
caused by impatient minds.

Until I met you
I never understood
What was to be gained, from the rain
That ran like blood
Out of every orifice
Watching the clouds frown
Like outlaws on the run, under the gun
We run through this town
I can imagine us
Running with nothing to lose
The rain’s forever falling, we’re forever calling
And I’m falling for you
Just like the rain.
Now I understand what I had to do
That through the pain, what you had to gain
I never liked the rain til I was with you
The rain no matter how it comes
Isn’t something to be feared
It’s just like all the rest of God’s creations
It’s something that has to be adhered
Respected, for its presence
We know it will come again
So we might as well laugh, a baptism, a bath
Holding hands in the rain.