In this life, we're given two lives.
One we're born with, the other we find.

Ignoring emotion keeps them apart, time brings them together.
Yet side-by-side, hand-in-hand they can fair out the weather.

One ticks, Two tocks in imperfect harmony.
Two zags while One zigs, with no one else they'd rather be.

Just when we can no longer be alone
Two finds us, Two loves us and carries us home.

In my honest opinion
For every cent it's worth
Everything starts from nothing
'Cause nothing came first.

While nothing may be there
There's time for there to be
Even just a hint or glimmer of
Something between you and me.

Now I can't speak for you
And I know you've already told me
But I've got to be who I am
And who I am is me.

You know it's real when the second he stops seeing you, he is letting you know about all the grand things you'll do together tomorrow.

You know it's real if you make him stammer and mumble and talk about nothing because he's so excited to actually be around you that he forgets how to act cool or function at all.

You know it's real if your biting was something he looked forward to in his day.

You know it's real when your insults are the nicest compliments he's ever gotten.

You know it's real when he figits in his place because it's more uncomfortable to not be close enough to touch you.

You know it's real when he gives up eating peanut butter because you're allergic, and he's allergic to not being able to kiss you.

You know it's real when you take the time to look up reasons why he is suffering from insomnia, yet the reason is because he's always thinking of you.  

You know it's real when even in the absolute cold, your presence keeps him warm.

You know it's real if the real reason he was shaking was because he was anxiously excited to actually be talking to you.

You know it's real if he listens to what you have to say, even when it hurts him.

You know it's real when he only likes a song the way you sing it, not the way it's originally sung.

You know it's real if he tries to take you out of your comfort zone a little bit, because he gets to see your wacky and goofy self.

You know it's real if he tells you he's ticklish because he just wants you to know his weakness.

You know it's real when he thinks the best makeup on you is the kind that stays in its container.

You know it's real if he stays up until the next morning because you can't sleep, and he can't say goodnight to you.

You know it's real when the reason he can't sleep is because you've already said goodnight, and he's still having your conversation in his head.

You know it's real if you saw how many times he rewrote his texts just so he could send you the right one.

You know it's real because he has saved a text from six months ago that made him smile because of you.

You know it's real when after repeatedly breaking his heart, he'd be willing to do it again.

You know it's real when after breaking yours, he'd never be able to live with himself again.

You know it's real if his phone buzzes a million times since the moment he got in the door, and he only picked it up to check the time so he could stay later.

You know it's real if for every secret you told him, he told you two just so you never felt too vulnerable.

You know it's real because against all odds of you ever wanting him, he sees that 1% as the only amount he needs.

You know it's real because he isn't afraid to cry in front of you because he needs you there for him.

You know it's real when he read your mind without you even making a gesture.

You know it's real because your hands is the only place he'd want his to be.

You know it's real when you both see someone who is attractive and agree.

You know it's real when he stays up all night writing poems and lists about how dumb/sorry/confused he is because instead of using his brain, he decided to use his heart.

You know it's real if you only see him smiling when he looks at you.

You know it's real if he gets you to repeat what you said only because he wanted to hear your voice, again.

You know it's real if the best time he ever had texting you was when you asked him to call you.

You know it's real if he gets really awkward when you're alone because he's afraid that he could say something that would make you realize that he is just trying to tell you he loves you.

You know it's real when he can't just say goodnight, but a whole bunch of things he hopes is going to happen tomorrow that involve seeing you.

You know it's real if he's writing this list out because of you.

We appeal to logic and reason when creativity fails us

We resort to ravaging anger when we just can't understand

Hatred fuels our relentless paths when we wish it were different

Sadness washes those awful deeds from our hands.

The heart is the heaviest of all the organs.
It carries your burdens, your worries, your sorrows.
When you speak from it, this weight is packed into every word, yet none of it is lifted from your heart.
Sometimes I wish I could think through my brain instead of my heart.
But then I ask myself: Which one hurts more when it's betrayed?
You need a brain to be alive, but you need a heart to live.

Gray mountain concrete
       elephant underpass
groans on six foot wide
legs
      
       bones of steel
       re-bar bend and break

As it all begins to crumble
in the cold November sun

Leviathan highways
   strangle the hills
      with cold grip- They
            spill steel and smoke
       blood on the city streets

Delivering poison
     to your door

Robot brain control center
Oversees the operation
from tall towers
        geometric shapes
          
        Obelisks & Skyscrapers

Father Culture thinks with
                                   his ****

Our life puts the "Sh..." back in
"Chicago."

This pulse could race, slow to a dull thud or stop and curdle like the residents of a container of milk who've been left out, and still you will never love me.  

Gobs of waiter phlegm we never detect in our bowls of soup and teapots beg our forgiveness and howl for our affection, and are invisible.

But where is the crime in not loving
when we are not loved?
How could there be a crime in not loving,
when we are loved poorly?
Loved so poorly we cannot afford
to ask ourselves where is the crime,
thus implying innocence.

We put the "mice" back in
"monogamous."

tip-toeing, silent but for mere squeaks, nearly inaudible whispers,
furtive looks, and how we run away, screaming,
or, like mice and Chicagoans all, we freeze.

Aquiver with fear, iced up in the Polar Vortex, hands raised in the policeman's spotlight.

But where is the crime in not loving
when you are not loved, or loved poorly?
Loved so poorly we cannot afford to stand up straight,
We scurry close to building walls,
trying not to be seen or see each other as we curse our fate.

Where is the crime in not loving those whom we hate?

There is no crime, but still, not loving is the heart of all crime.
To feel so deeply unloved we wish to destroy ... you name it.
Blot out, ruin and erase them; our enemies, our families, lovers, and even the world herself.

Jab a knife into her verdant hide and twist until black blood flows.
Gouge out mountaintops seeking iron for our towers.
Remaking her grace to build our graveyard.

These vibrant phosphorescent tombstones, overpopulated pillars of mutual isolation reach up into the clouds.
Announcing to the universe, we trumpet a loneliness as profound as it is absurd and ugly.

We mourn atop skyscrapers
As our forefathers
Mourned amongst baobab trees in Uganda
Because we have been forsaken,
It is judgment day,
And we’re fearful.