There is an uncomfortable ledge on the tip
of your tongue. It is the place where your
flimsy thoughts uneasily sway, and in these
debating moments of loosely hanging on,
you decide to spit or swallow. For you, it is
the worst place for words to stoop, and
sometimes your tongue just flicks them out
like cigarette buds and all you can do is look
down the ledge in disbelief. I catch the words
at the bottom, salvaging rusted-penny-like
sentences. If I pocket enough, I know I will
be able to give them worth. I will surely turn
uncertain stammers into something much more
amiable and toss myself up the sill; our anxious
balconies colliding and combining. I absorb
the last fretful words, out of your mouth,
and sip the apology slowly off your lips.

Cheap,
convenience
store coffee,
steaming
out of
a styrofoam
cup,
clacking
against the
walls. Just
as I sip
veteran brewed
mocha mud,
burnt,
I unerringly
gripe about
those late
library
fees; my pockets
are parched.

And I think growing up had more
to do with the struggle of validating
your pipe dreams and protecting your
worlds virginity, than it ever had
to do with transcending your naive mind.
It became difficult to hope for
something figmental, let alone comfortable,
so you accept reality as only concrete.
Perhaps that is why you began to
digress through third grade
crushes, because it was the closest
thing to impossibility but borderlined
on the edge enough to authenticity
and tangible reality that it was okay.
And that was when you definitely sensed it,

*that hundred to one feeling.

My jeans ripple strands of faded
ponds curling around criss crossed
legs. The arc of my back hanging
over college ruled notebook paper
and I am sitting in the nook under
the staircase because I do not like
explaining to people why I am

so
*******
awkward.

And I might still try to die but if I
do not, I do not care all the same.
The air in my mouth is slightly stale
and seeping through the crevice of
my lips, like a draft, but they purse
tighter and I could almost hear my
breath beating against the back of
my teeth. Yell at me and travel your
voice close enough to cling to my
disadvantaged self-esteem and far
enough to send postcards when I
think I have had enough of this place.
If you want to talk too, I guess that
would be okay except my thoughts
are louder than you, so let me please

monologue
your
ear.

You can tell me how disproportionate
our relationship is after you help me
salvage what is left of my rationality.

Threads of cotton
corkscrewing
through blankets,
blending flesh
with fabric.
Flicking rain
drops off the
surface
of window
panes,
penciling my
name over
your skin with
my teeth.
Tremoring fingers
tracing your
silhouette,
sensing your
rapture wrapped
in
apprehensive
heart beats,
hanging on the
fibers folding
over our
unstitched
bodies