I lust for you
to think of me
daydream
of your scribbled greetings
of your silent longing,
your thoughts of me
(thinking of you)

thirsty
for some confession
of truth
something drastic, something new

in this stagnant springtime

colours, bright and harsh
yet they fall upon me
oh so dull
the wind avoids my skin
walking in a vacuum
so constantly numb
so ardent for
a crack in
the continuity

it subdues
any passion
even my hatred
for routine

letting me subconsciously
slip
into the nightmare
of the "american dream"
the steady pretending
this enmeshment
it infects
the very seams of
my existence

-
if i wrote a poem for every time
i felt like checking out indefinitely
i'd have six collections published
and the means to build myself
a cabin in a river valley,
tucked away between
two peaks of the andes
that are as lonely
as the singing/screaming
dual facets of the inner mind.
-
and ironically, i'd use the space
to fill the necessity i ran from
anyways, but --
-

thunder is your favorite sound
and thunder is what cracked
in our stormcloud lungs
and our pulses
and the brushing of fingers
like lightning rods,
hoping one too many
would be enough to strike us.

petrichor is my favorite smell
and so we're suited to the dark grey
when it looms o'erhead;
every rippling echo an invitation
to be the next rock thrown into the sky --
rain breaks the seal, and immediately
there's no other option than
to be intoxicated with the scent of renewal.