the culture club mix-tape section from nylon magazine completes me. sometimes I don’t feel like capitalizing the first letter to the first word of a new sentence. feelings can be so useless sometimes. I use the word sometimes too much. I think I am in love with Keaton Henson. I think I have a crush on one of my co-workers. I’d rather have a crush than be in love with you, it’ll last a while longer that way. I like coffee mugs, they are so comfortable to drink out of, they make me feel safe. I like it better when you’re warm, I want to give you warm feelings. I remember this one time I wrote the saddest poem I've ever written during one of the saddest points in my life, I sat there with legs crossed on the cold ground of a dim hallway on the third floor of the humanities building at school. It was on a yellow blue-lined sheet of paper, I folded it in three, I left it there anonymously and fled. I’ll never know who found that piece of me, perhaps no one ever did. every day is another year. I’m sorry, I always end up writing too much. I’m sorry, for being quite a crap person sometimes, truly I am. There are many things I’ll live to be sorry about, but I've no fault for the words inside of my head. All tomorrow’s parties are dead. Listen to The Babies all night with me instead.

Oh darling, save a place for me in your heart.

I wore red shorts, black and white striped t-shirts, baggy over-sized Vanity Fair thrifted sweaters. I liked being alone. I liked people, but I just liked to be alone. I'd go to public libraries in other cities. I'd sit on benches at foreign parks, stayed to watch the shift...renouncing sun, rising moon. The shift, faithful shift...it moved me in such a way. A way that from the start I decided on never intending to describe. Obliviously attentive I observed everything. Shaggy-haired pre-teens skateboarding past grassy hills. Society-stricken women jogging along directed pavement. Fleeting array of arrival and dismissal. Me, sitting. Cold, happy, miserable, lonely...reading the words of anonymous others. I didn't feel alone when I read. I read all the time. I'd sit in my car on some parking-space in the midst of a small town plaza, in front of my drive-way sometime past mid-night, on the streets that could have been avenues. I'd sit and write. I'd write myself away. For nothing. For everything. For the sake of my time, for the sake of my happiness. My being. I was self-seeking through printed form. Feelings. They confused the **** out of me, especially when I wouldn't feel. And is that really even a feeling…the feeling of absence? The feeling of feeling nothing. A non-existent possessive emptiness. I wanted to be an actress. I wanted to be a writer. A poet. A librarian. An old silver-haired woman with a daughter and a son, and eventually grandchildren. A grandson named Ted and a granddaughter named Valentina, which I’d with warm grandmotherly charm sooner-than-later refer to as  ‘Teddy, dearest’ and ‘Valentina, sweetest’. --- And a lover. My lover who grew old with me. My lover who’d stay up to drink tea with me every God willing night. A great father to our children; a grandfather who’d take little Teddy dearest and Valentina sweetest out for bike rides. I wanted to be a cantante but I didn't have the voice for it. I was too average to be a model. A porcelain face didn’t suffice. More than necessary I’d hear strangers whisper, “doesn't she look like a doll?” The familiars, “dear, you are such a doll.” It was flattering. I hated it. I felt just as plastic as I looked. A doll. A cold plastic life-less porcelain doll. But then…I’d feel high. In it’s purest sense, so high…I could just take the world by clichéd storm. Conquer the dreams of my ancestors along with my own. There were times when I was invincible. I was complicated, and simple. I longed for nothing more and nothing less than a full stomach and a full heart. My organs were always half-empty. I’d stare at the stars, the moon, the sky. The laugh-lines of my father. My mothers illuminating youthful eyes filled with brightness that later in life resembled more of puddles from spring left-over’s. I’d look at my own, through the reflection of satin glass mirrors. I wish my eyes were story-tellers. I wanted a brighter smile. I wish I didn't think so much as I did. I wondered…what would life be like without a face? More sensitive, perhaps. I often times felt crazy. Unsanitary. Pathetic. Never bitter. Always misunderstood. And oddly enough, blessed. Fortunate. I believed in God. Enough so to capitalize His name. I had faith. I was grateful. If I had a million dollars, I’d off and buy the church I attended and give it as a gift to the pastor. Even then, hell as a final-inning wouldn't be eliminated. I wanted a better life. Everybody did. Nobody admitted it. Nobody talked about it. And if they did, I’d yet to hear them out. I would like to know, who, if anyone, will ever care enough to hold a beaten strangers hand? I was sympathetic. Internal. Introspective, and optimistic. I’d more than often refer to myself in the past tense. It just felt better. I liked it more that way. The imagery of a youth gone too soon. I made sense, none at all. And at times, I didn't feel the need to. I was nine-teen. Living in my own worded future. Living, that’s all that counts. All that matters. I’d be better someday. That’s what I’d tell myself. And maybe I would. Maybe I would end up being an actress, or a model, or a poet, or a wife. None of these things mattered, but maybe someday, somehow, I would. I’d wake up and live the life of being alive. 99.9, 8:29. And so…I left. And cars raced against streetlights. Seconds raced against minutes. Time was this never-ending race,
and I was just racing against myself.

Here I am twenty years old smoking cigarettes alone at a public city park sometime around 9 00 PM. There is a drunken homeless man or woman, I cannot tell, staring intently at me from a distance. My oversized-sweater covered back slouched toward the bike riders and family walkers of the night. My mouth tastes of melancholy and syrup. I made love here once before with a boy I never truly loved. It is possible to make love to another human body without taking off your clothes. It is possible to love the idea of a person more than the person himself. Herself. Ourselves. That’s the thing about love, that’s the thing about words. They are used so frequently, so effortlessly, so abundantly; they’ve come to lose much meaning. Meaning. What does meaning even mean? Everything and nothing make sense. Should I be ashamed of myself for having read more poems from Charles Bukowski than Psalms and scriptures from the HOLY BIBLE? Should I be disappointed in myself for genuinely not caring for the pursuit of a higher education? I don’t even want to be a writer anymore. Is it sad that I don’t have the same flame of desire as I did when I was seventeen? Yet, I still want so much. I still want it all. To be happy to be alive to be healthy to be mad to be in-love to be inspired to feel wild to feel on the edge of so much greatness to be beautiful to be broken to be fixed to be passionate to be young to be it all to feel it all. Everything. Every emotion every word every color every flavor every sound every sight all things unseen the haunted the past the future love love love *** faith sin sadness sadness hollow burning lovely days nights evenings mornings cities people their stories glory hunger thirst satisfaction. I want to live in dissatisfaction until it’s driven me to the point of maddening bliss. I don’t know what I want. I never have. I never will. How am I to say, really? It could be enough to just have my hand held by yours. It could be enough to listen to each other through silence. It could be enough to feel the wandering breeze of summer wind coquettishly linger through my ***** autumn hair. It could be enough to capture my distorted anxiety on blue-lined wide-ruled yellow sheets of paper. It could be enough to have what means most to my heart taken away without return. It could be enough to sit here in solitude, by choice, as I am doing---and allow myself to be taken away as well by the mysteries of the sky, the moon, the clouds and the odd noises of the night. Perhaps, we are just as simple as we are torn. We are more. We are everything and nothing all at once. Elope with me through thought.
Close your eyes, forget your name. Here, we’ll never die.
Here, we’ll never live. Just you and I --- here.
A modern intimacy.

I want to fall in love with you today tonight and tomorrow
I want to shy away from your touch only to bring you back home with me
I want to lay down by your side late evening on the livingroom carpet
And tell you all the ways in which you are beautiful, you are beautiful, you are

I want to eat dinner with you and breakfast, too
I want to connect with your mind, your words and your skin
I want you to look at me like it's the first time

I want to love you enough without pushing you away
It seems your absence draws me nearer

I want our love to live in videotape
Our memories reeled in red, blue, green
Red, blue, green

I want to be the great strange dream
That you are much too fond of for letting go

the night has a thousand eyes.
only two of them make my heart flutter.
I love poetry because it makes me love.
there's a certain art to crying.
there's a certain charm to sadness.
I've a profound desire for long train rides to somewhere.
I've a strange frenzy for mail packages with my name written on them.
they remind me that I exist. they remind me that I am not infinite.
I don't know what it is about tomorrow, but I know I'll never be the same.
unsentimental, driving around, like the future is supposed to be.
before you go crossing that bridge in your mind, again
darling you're loved, they love you
I love you
I love you
*I'll love

sweetheart, what have you done to us?
you may have broken me
I've enough pain to last the rest of my life
all that's left to linger is meek wind through my wild hair
you used to call me lover
and now the sunshine doesn't touch my skin
and my cursive is just as sloppy as my thoughts of you

sweetheart, strangers watch us through the night while we're sleeping
poets have a certain touch of sadness in their eyes,
a certain touch of sadness that only another poet could understand
my violet lips taunt draw nearer
the sapphire in my eyes warn keep your distance

you want to hear the words that separate whom I was to who I am
but darling, it's not that simple
I prefer to dream in silence
there's a past I've never known and it reels me to this same place of
searching without finding, of lonesome noon's of writing

We made love in your car once
on the rooftop of a thirteen-story parking structure in Los Angeles city
the faint smell of liquor warm on your breath
the full look of night-sky ablaze in your eyes
you mended my skin with soft parted lips
sewing my wounds shut one kiss at a time

It’s been six months since and now I sit here, alone
in the parking lot of a train station some miles away from town
observing the dismiss and arrive of lives I'll never get to be a part of
my insides are still bleeding just as much as that night in the city
when you held my naked skin in your mending arms
/ /
sweetheart, you used to call me lover
when I didn't know what love meant

I feel
Yes, I feel
That sometimes it is necessary to be cynical
There just comes that breaking point
Where you have to get out of your maddening mind
Face your own reflecting image in a mirror
And say those few words
Those few words that hold the truth
To your million faulting thoughts

"You're not as bad as you think you are, Gladys"

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 .

it is cold
my ******* are hard
I'm not fond enough of you
to care whether you think of me as appropriate or otherwise
I drink because I like it when my vision matches the blur of my mind
a boy I don't know came up to me at the gay bar
he caressed my face and walked away and then walked back
to apologize for not being able to contain himself
his friend also apologized on his behalf and assured me that
it is not his friends fault that I am so charming
naturally I smiled in comprehensive shyness
it has been a while since a touch has felt like home
it has been a while since home has felt like home
you will fall in love with all the wrong girls
you will ******* your way out of the responsibilities of growing up
you will catch the attention of strangers
and you will mean so much to them
so many things
so many thoughts
so many names left unknown
sit out with me in stormy weather
we're both naive, broken, and delirious
with not much else to do, do it with me
roaming poet of the night, give me your words
*oh, pour me another drink
and punch me in the face
you can call me Nancy

Wow, I am such a loner
I am such a loner, wow
Internally, I’m a loner
Physically, I’m a loner when I choose to be
Which is often I suppose
Because you see, I enjoy the company
Of my own awkward silence
Our bones are composed of empty spaces
That are meant to be filled up by each-others words
You need to tell me whether you love me or do not love me
That is the only way to keep me from breaking in three’s
My ribs they are so fragile
My tiny body atop the sheets of your bed, so very fragile
Oh, but I don’t want to be whole
Shut up shut up shut up
Succumb to the glories of drunken cinema with me instead
In your mind
Come, touch my thoughts with your thoughts
Whisper somber poetry into my ******* with your soft chapped lips
I cannot forget the temperature of your body
Your hand in mine is a fever I refuse to sweat out
Medicine, medicine, artificial cure of wounds
I like the way bruises add sass to my skin
Wow, I am so pathetic
I am so pathetic, wow
I will never grow out of it
You will never grow fond of me
What a cycled misery
Baby, baby just walk away

Another rainy evening in the city
6 2 4 P M

last I checked it was 3 06 AM
the foggy window displayed scene to a rainy night of a
small town near the city of Chicago
your dim apartment filled sweetly with vanilla lavender aroma and the
delicate croon of Billie Holiday transcended from the living-room phonograph
a blue tin coffee *** pictorially placed upon faint orange flames
overdue library books and half-written notepads stacked symmetrically
within the oven of La Cornue Albertine ivory stove
you sat me atop the wooden counter of your tiny marble kitchen and
gently tucked at my stockings until they gracefully
renounced to the tile patterned floor
with your hands placed on either side of my thighs
you gradually - - -
kissed me softly on my knees

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.

quite frankly,
I am sick of all my words.
the clock ticks,
I keep sleeping.
marry me for my love, please.
for my love above all things.
choose my love over myself.
this is your hand
these are my insecurities
this is the rain,
this is what it does to you
through me.

the seconds and hours of life have wistfully aligned and
it is your birthday
and although I wish most sincere it be happy
I myself cannot help but feel terribly, terribly sad
so I am sitting here fourteen minutes past midnight
eating fruit in silence at the tiny desk of my tiny room
trying to sort myself out, trying to snap myself out of it
I know death has no preference of age
the young and the old flee indistinctly alike
but it's been two years since I noted your first bald spot
and a few months ago while we were eating breakfast at the kitchen table,
a flashback of abuelito came to mind while I observed a faint milky layer visibly
taking form around the lens of your charcoal eye
and the other day you forgot to turn off the bathrooms light and it wasn't the first time
and last night you had the televisions volume past fifty all the while sleeping
and those favorite pair of jeans you've worn for years no longer fit you like they used to
and the skin under your chin and arms are starting to stretch
and I can't help but want to cry
because here I am at the tiny desk of my tiny room
while you are sleeping alongside mom two bedrooms away
and this is how it's always been since I was a child
and the days will go by until it is not
and I can't help but want to cry
because you have always been my hero
because up until college you were by my side for every single first day of school
because the first time I had my heart broken by a boy,
you held me in your arms until I felt better
because you know what condiments I do and don't like in my food
because you give me encouraging words without even realizing it
because you never call me stupid,
even when I do stupid things like accidentally locking your keys in your car
because you care enough to take away my internet connection when I'm *******-up
because you still tell me that I'm pretty even after all these years
because if it weren't for you, I don't know what would be of me
because my love for you is infinite,
but our flesh and bones are not


father, words can go farther than you and I both
and on this tenth of july, I leave such fate in poem
the seconds and hours of life have wistfully aligned and
it is your birthday
and although I wish most sincere it be happy
I myself cannot help but feel terribly, terribly sad
because sixty-five years ago today God gave just one like you
and this world so large, it will never have the feeling that I do

She's the kind of girl who'd take a pregnancy test (after drinking two venti iced green teas) at a Starbucks restroom. She's the kind of girl who'd come close to overdosing on antioxidants and diet pills. She's the kind of girl who'd drink cheap velvet wine to the point of senselessness and obliviously karaoke to Radiohead's Jigsaw Falling Into Place at a distant city bar on an Autumn Tuesday night. She's the kind of girl who'd still be holding your wrong-doing hands underneath the sheets atop your bed at 4:03 AM.
She's the kind of girl I'd be if I had more of a heart and less of a mind.

I'm standing in the center of a bar and
I hate everyone
The whisky is sour and my make-up is a mess
Cherry blossom storms mix my feelings of you in early-morning dreams
We hurt one another in humble self-defense
Our young needs make our feverish bodies tremble
I've drowned my sorrow and slept around, if not in body tangibly in mind
You kiss pretty girls to erase my scribbled cursive name from your memory
Yet your hand placed in mine was real and
Syncopation of hearts aren't easily ruptured
The city lights glow dim in primal sympathy for the broken gestures of love
Wounds itch when they heal and
Sometimes writing is not enough

I woke up this morning with my face in a book
it smelled so sweet
it reminded me of you
I brushed the tip of my fingers against it's words
smooth, soft, mesmerizing
I pretended it was the pale of your lips
pausing the words I wish you hadn't said
indulged in the kisses you've yet to give
an epilogue, your ghost inside my head
paper spine, your bones resting on my bed
good-morning, love
it's been a long time since
I got my hands on your teenage poems.

I'm a lost beat in a generation that I don't belong in
This accent isn't my own, and nothing is really just nothing
On drunken nights I feel you, your words stumble upon my sight
And I feel, I feel... static, ecstasy, loneliness

This beauty which you claim of blossom fields and grey empyreal
It mimics my inner-manic. Estranged voice that dauntingly whispers:
don't claim to the beauty you see

Satellite heart, you're losing your signal, again
I'd build a ladder to the sky and climb every star,
past the moon and beyond, if I could.

I've tried, you know I've tried.
Although I refuse to recline,
denial itself fixates truth:
I'll never be able to fix you.

To quench your thirst, to ease your pain, keep you awake
I'd make you stay, forevermore upon your desire, you know I would.

In my mind, I'll hold your hand without interference
And if tears do in fact dry on their own,
I'll cry yours along with mine until they do.

Feverish trembling of reminisce will not exist, not here
Outside these city walls,
To a place afar from calendar days and neon glistening hours
We will dance atop telephone wires

The soles of our feet tracing back to the sound of that very first call
gliding, floating, drifting
recklessly, carelessly, quixotically - - -
And if we fall, love, imagine that imaginations fly.

It's been said, as they say, that everything, everything ends
We are not everything, however. We are merely ourselves alone
You and I, it is just you and I, dispersed, coffee of the sea
For no reason other than our own, we rage in reprise as
Metaphors among caffeinated tides.

We are not infinite, immeasurable, imperishable
Our ancient bodies have long been buried in one-an-others heart
We are our own. Constant as the silence of sound.
Ceaselessly, immersed in the slumber of our dream
*We are, we are,   w e   a r e

Give me Beirut after midnight on a Tuesday
Wednesday morning doesn't need to know we're here
My eyes so dull of aging compromise
Give me the anticipation that will make me feel young again
Things aren't how they used to be but they can be in our minds
Fall in and out of me
My heart is so dizzy and my thoughts so blurry
And you still so pretty, so pretty to me
I want to write you pity love songs until you think of me as pretty, too
And hold your soft hands through a cold autumn stroll through the park
And kiss you credulously in the dark
Yes, sometimes I want to die
Somehow somewhere I am already dead
And you, my light, might not exist
Perhaps we have always been
Alone
Alone
Alone
But right now while listening to The Rip Tide at 1:49 am
Pretend with me
Lie to yourself, too
You're not too shallow
I'm not too broken
You're the right amount of shy
I'm not overtly out-spoken
We are our feeling
We cannot be tamed
We cannot be touched
Us
We are us
We're in love
love
love
love

//

Leave it for tomorrow to decide what is false pretense and real

sitting alone at a café. oblivious. observant.
staff meeting. **** talking. deceiving. polite.
you are perfect for me, to me, within.
i am shaky. i am nervous, constantly. all the time.
i am eager to speak to you. i am timid. come closer, kiss me.
i am not afraid to dip my slice of bread into the bowl of cream soup.
it makes it soft. i like it better when you're soft.
your smile makes it difficult to go further past the core of you.
are you happy? are you sad?
are you here? were you ever?
these questions. relentless. etc. etc.
i starve myself just to know how it feels.
i quench the thirst of my heart with the liquid of your poetry.
velvet wine and sea salt tears.
give me something to relate to.
is history recorded? does someone have a tape?
king of convenience, master of none.
my hair is not as long as i want it to be.
i'm not very fond of math. i'm not very fond of time.
i like your voice, it's slightly soothing.
writing is the only way i know.
the world is at large and i am so small.
i know very little if anything at all.
i don't want to go to work.
i want to lay down on the mud of the sea,
i want the dance of waves to set my spirit free.
read On the Road with me until we both fall asleep.
miércoles, miércoles, let me be.

And you pushed me around in a shopping cart in the snow
while I explained to you my strange fascination with candles
why I find them to be lovely
and how they also make me sad
because no matter how much they burn, burn, burn
like Kerouac's fingertips in the night
once its flare reaches the bottom
there is no coming back

And the day after I told you this
you picked me up from school
without saying a word
we drove in your car
to our secret spot

We got off the car
you took off your jacket
lied it flat on the ground
and directed me to sit

As I did
you pulled a paper box out from your backpack
quietly
you handed it to me

Without questioning
I delicately pulled the mint green twine
until the paper box opened itself

Wrapped in thin tissue paper was a candle
and a tiny pack of Birdie
that held only two matches

Not knowing where this was going
I placed them in front of me

Gently you proceeded
and sat across the unlit candle
and two matches placed between us

We stayed in stillness for a moment
staring intently into each others eyes

I reached down for the tiny pack
and handed you a match

Taking your time
you stroke the match
as if setting flame to an unwanted photograph

You lit the candle
still in-between us both
still without exchange of words

You sat there with me and watched the shift of
its burn-rates blend with the likeness of the sun

And when it began to sputter uncontrollably
and when I began to cry
you sat there with me, still
this time by my side
breaking the silence

Quietly you whispered
in the open space before us
as if making proclamation to yourself
and to the sky

"This light will not grow dim"

And every day after you said this
I've waited for you after school

Without saying a word
I drive my car
to our secret spot

Getting off the car
I take off your jacket
and lay it flat on the ground

I take out the paper box
and place the empty candle jar and single match
before me

- - -

*your light has not grown dim
although I sit here
without the candle of your eyes to look into
I can still feel you burning
in the core of my soul

I think you may think I’m pretty
I also think that’s not enough
To make me want to know beyond your name
Or hold the different layers of warmth between your fingers

The walls stand against me tonight
There is feral love within the unseen of our dreams
Why do you croon so insolently, child?
The forces of gravity are in your favor, be keen

I want to taste your pain and insecurities
I want the exposure of your body to melt in my mouth
Cherry blossoms spring forth from desolate hymns
Autumn leaves spur foolishly among the skies

Press your throat against my earlobe
I want to hear you louder

I want to hear you clear
Your every sigh, a memory left for me to dwell on
Your every moan, an undoing, my ******’s suicide

These are the things that matter, the more you get the less you are
The higher you are, the more you fall
The more you fall apart

These are the words that hold my youth
These are the words that hold my heart

These are the words that will never be enough, no never be enough
To make you less you and make you more mine
Yet I hope for your life, I hope for you, I do

There are subliminal messages on my birthday cake
The candle lit itself on fire cause it did not know
No, it did not know how to feel about time

Glow in the darkness with me, monsieur
There are secret worlds in your mind
That you yourself are not aware of

Let the strum of vision put you to sleep

f-f-feel it, again and again
In your bones, on my bed

You've got to close your eyes to see me better
There are ghosts in the back of my head
They want to know
Don’t tell them why

Neither one
Neither one of us
Will make it down this hill alive

Gila, Gila, Gila
They will teach us everything
Except how to mourn, except how to die

Maybe I will change
Maybe things will change
Maybe you will change your mind

Madame, I meant it when I called you pretty
Madame, I meant it when I held your hand

Piano tuner vibrations at one-hundred-fifty decibels form inside my chest
Yet, it's not enough
No, it's never enough

To hurt the soft smoldering of my insides
With the conditioned paradise of your pain.

i deleted your number from my cell phone
i deleted every first every last and every in-between conversation and
message and letter and poem from every modern source you'd ever written me from
i deleted every single photograph every song every "to watch" on "our list"
i deleted "our list" all together
i threw away the sunflowers the roses the button-pins the heart-shaped box
along with the cinema metro and music festival stubs stored within it
i threw away the books the t-shirts the drawings the key-chain and every other ******* gift
i threw away the old bed sheets, the ones we last lied on together
and replaced it with a new set and another's pulse
i erased you from my presence
i erased you of all memories
you're merely in my mind
i no longer need you
i no longer want you
i no longer love you

i - am not over you

It makes me sad
How often you think about dying
When you are the reason
I look forward to being alive

people tend to look at you funny when you're by yourself.
a few give the stare of sympathy; apologetic for your being alone.
but I don't mind it, really. not at all.
I choose my solidarity. I enjoy my own company.
I enjoy the conversations of my thoughts with my heart.
I enjoy sitting at a table for three, alone, at a café underground.
I take my time, I take slow bites of my sandwich and long sips of my tea.
I write. I listen.
To the echoes of poetry in the pit of my stomach,
to other people's conversation.
I wonder why they choose to discuss the weather instead of their emotions.
I wonder if they have a favorite song, and what that song does to them.
I wonder which of all is their favourite colour.
I observe endlessly their gestures.
Their faces, the slightly visible creases beneath their eyes,
their humor, their tension, their kindness.
The waitress, keeping count of her tips when there's no one in line.
The artificial display of burning firewood on the plasma television.
Entwined dim lights and origami lanterns hanging down from the walls.
MGMT's Kids playing in the background of pool table and ceiling fan noises.
Control yourself, take only what you need from me.
I dedicate songs to myself. I disagree with their message.
Unapologetically, I pass time in the cinema of my mind.
It helps me connect with the anxious, suffocating,
void and pending urging twenty-one-year-old emotions beneath my veins.
Solitude helps me cope with myself.

we stayed up all night
drinking wine   listening to nirvana
until we both got so tired and fell to the floor
you took my hand and I closed my eyes while
you traced the outline of my lifeline with your tongue
I'd never felt so dead before, so careless and at ease
my lips met your lips like it was the first time
your lips met my ******* like it was the last
my hollow bones filled sweetly with your breathless moans
your fingertips vigorously stroke my delicate skin until our feverish bodies became one
and burnt a hole deep through the ground
all coherence lost in the shadow pits of darkness
our lust scattered lovely all the same
your hidden demons exposed through euphoric thrusts
my soft murmurs like whispered prayers in your ears

when I opened my eyes and saw into yours
I knew for a moment that heaven still exists

here, take me.
have me.
break my body
and sip my blood
if it make you whole.

bury my remnants of lipstick stains
and somber poetry
underneath soil mixed with honey
when you're done.