I want to read the books that he reads,
and like the books that he likes.
I want to lose myself in every song he's ever dedicated to me,
and sing sweet words to him through my mind.
I want to stay up all night and watch movies with him curled up on his couch,
or bed, or folding chair, whatever have he.
I want him to know he's the one I want, too.
And when he calls me by my name, and tells me I'm beautiful,
I want it to be real. I want his confide in me to be everlasting.
I want his next Tuesday, and every other Tuesday after that.
I want him to stop being so nice to me.
I want him to stop telling me the words I've so long waited to hear.
I want him to teach me about Pokemon.
I want to teach him every french word I've learned to date.
I want to go into the future, of twenty-three and twenty-five.
I want to be seven-teen again.
He makes me want.
He makes me want.
To want him so.

Silver reverberating heart
You've out-grown me
Tonight
You out-run me
But I
Chase you still
I chase you still

Past the corridor of the city's dark slumber
Past the pleasures of the fixated ******

Your magnetism deteriorates my final inning

I'll go
s l o w

I'll go
sdrawkcab

Imperceptive to
Your stance
I'll slip to you
As the sun
To the horizon

Silver wretched,
Alongside the start of an early-morning
Your meek murmurs are
Visible,
Tangible,
Like sunlight from the window passing through a glass picture frame
That creates a spectrum across the steam rising above my coffee
Placed atop the kitchen table

Silvering wretched,
With your faint-cloudy-murmurs I agree,

The sea is the best place
To be
Wondrously
Free

I track you down,
Ever so desolately


Pale skin, blue bones
Renounced
Upon
Breeze
Reeling
Tides

Humble,
Dismissive,
Tr­anquil

My regard is not toward the thoughts you think
I intend not to dismay your delicate appeal

Silvering opulent,
Be lenient
Even if just for the sake of yourself

Tell me so
I want to know

Tell
me
how
you
feel

Reverberating silver heart,
Come, converse with me,

Give me your gossip
Tell me your stories

I
need
to
know
how
you
felt

And I wept myself to sleep that night because I had never before been so confused by love.
I cringed and curled up in fetal position, grasping a hold of my chest so it may not intend reckless motions. I had to remind myself to be subtle, and for a few sustainable moments hold my breath.
Anything to settle the beating urge within me. A beating. Rapid heart-beats beating me whole from the inside-out. I clutched my fists together, fury enough to pronounce war. I was in a battle. Sentiment and myself. I was overwhelmed. My least prediction was circling around in wayward precision, staring me down. And would I take back yesterday if I could? I don't know. Would I run away with him if I should? For good? If he meant it? If it were more, if it were pure, if it were true? God knows. The moon knows. I sure as hell don't. I'm afraid. I'm haunted. I'm scared. I fear I might like you too much. I'm afraid. I'm haunted. I'm scared. I fear liking you too much may never be enough. And so you proceed. And so I weep. And so we both remain discreet, if tonight we sleep. Possibilities are endless. Tomorrows rising sun can change us. But tonight, we seek, from afar distance one-an-others unseen. If tonight, we dream, it will make no difference to our reality.
The lonesome feeling is mutual.

I want to drink the tears you cry .
I want your beautiful emotions to live
if even for just a moment
inside of me .

It's 3:09 PM, I've just deactivated my facebook account. Not planned, or thought-out...just so. I know, it's a foolish and stupid thing to even take the time of noting down in words but so it goes. I'm not horrible, I've been worse. I'm just not...doing too good. I don't feel well, and quite frankly I'm too exhausted for the whole staying positive *******. Things like deactivating my lame facebook account and not owning a cell-phone by free-will...it's my way of modernly disconnecting from the artificial world I've held part of and the people in it. It's not that I'm trying to isolate myself or become anti-social completely...it's more like...I'm just trying to find some air, some real ******* fresh air to breath. I've been listening to Man Of A Thousand Faces by Regina Spektor on repeat this past week, and I just need...I just need to let my own self be. I'm at a distant public library away from home as I type this. It's one of my favorite places to visit and spend some quality free time at. Surrounding myself with books and records and strangers is one of the most tranquilizing methods I know. It's difficult sometimes...to accept that I'm twenty years old and in far reach of accomplishing my dreams. It's difficult to accept that my father's heart could fail again...it's difficult to accept that my mum has vertigo...it's difficult to accept that my uncle is dead, it's going to be a year since and I still cannot bring myself out of selfish denial. Loving is difficult, caring is difficult, trying is difficult, beliefs are difficult, feelings are difficult, I am difficult...and the thought of wanting to cry makes me want to cry because it's so exasperating and draining and overwhelming and humbling. I haven't written or posted much on here lately, but doing so right now gives me this tiny and odd and inexplicable crumb of...hope? It's difficult to accept death as much as life itself sometimes but nevertheless I accept it. I cope through it in the stupid little ways that I can. I become torn and furiously passionate all at once. I can only love as much as my heart can manage and work hard and try hard and cry when I feel like ******* crying because feelings are beautiful and meant to be exposed.
todo en él es lugar adecuado .

sometimes it’s necessary to get rid of the old shoe boxes along with the sepia toned photographs and rubber band held stacks of folded letters stored within them. The old ballad, the old familiar places, the old desires, the tainted dreams. The image of that young familiar face so deeply engraved inside of your eyelids, in the back of your mind--and those rosy lips that once spoke to you ever so sweetly. Those rosy lips that made you tremble, took you to a height of heaven--those rosy lips that made you cry. Some things are irreplaceable, such as that one autumn night of 09’ and that one early morning phone call of some day that you’d rather leave unknown. And you may never forget, and you may always remember. And those feelings may or may not fade away. And you may just come across something better, cause you know ******* well you deserve better. And you’ll go on to live, and you’ll go on to die, and the world will spin madly on and the jigsaw puzzle will fall into place-- just as you held his hand, just as you said hello, just as you kissed goodnight, just as you walked arm in arm. There will, there was, there is, and there is not. And it may never be enough, never as that time you both lied conspicuously on the ground counting raindrops in shared silence. And it may just be pointless, and this may just be a step of defeat, and you may day after day remain clueless. You may just figure it all out. Whether it matter or it doesn't---sometimes it’s just necessary to get rid of the old shoe boxes along with the sepia toned doubts and rubber band held stack of wasted emotions stored within them.

I really, really don't like myself sometimes. Most times. I like coffee, books, birds and flowers so much better. I've been listening to Ready, Able for the past four years. I'm still not alright. I'm no good at most things. Introspectiveness is not a talent. If I were a porcelain centerpiece, I'd scoot myself to the tables edge. My mum has reassured me that my head is not on right. My head, my least favorite accessory. I've yet to master the proper way of sock-folding. I've yet to master how to configure my heart. In less than five months time I'll be twenty-one. I get stupider with age. I like it when wine makes me dizzy. I wear old crazy-cat-lady coats in the summer because I can. My noir Remington is starting to build up dust. What use is it if not put to use? Useless, useless, useless like a harmonica without blow holes. I want to melt like ice cream in the sun of your pupils. Instead I sit here far from absent-minded, alone. I cannot be held still or perhaps I simply choose not to. If you wait too long for the others, I'll still be right here. Here, in the corridor of the memories we never had. I close my eyes in hope of seeing matters clearer. The world is composed of messy closets and ***** hands. Many youth wasted behind closed doors. Can we ever be sweet again? Will you hold my hand and mean it? Hollow voices frighten me but not as much as hypocrisy. I don't need to understand you, but I want to.
Lover, it's worth crying in your sleep if you've got somebody to dream about.