Mr. Cole plays on
In the background as I
Continue to type,
but my writing feels dry.

I want to call someone
Just to hear a voice that’s not
A character from a show.
Everyone I know
Is sleep,
and
or
related to me.

My cotton sheets feel
itchy
hot, even
against my skin
and I can’t focus on anything
but my concealing passion.

but the only Companionship
I find,
is with my dog
and depression.

Who cares?
Lust
is just a
fancy way
to say
"You're hot"
anyway

A trunk of stories fill my comforters with tears
as I marvel over the letters I've never
sent to all the women I adored. I think of
you as wax drips off the candle of time. I
suppose you loved this scent.

Color Me Yellow
Bright,
bright,
yellow.

I grew up knowing
to never look at the sun,
to just trust it was there.

I was taught,
to never look forward,
if the light is yellow.
"Prepare to stop."

I don't see color anymore,
except red.
except when the pain in my eyes
almost reached a different pain on my thighs.

we're Bright
even when nobody can ever see it
nor direct or indirect
Nor behind or in front.
nor in front or above you,

hanging like the photos of
when I used to be happy.

Bright,
bright
Yellow.

A new Renaissance
has started,
they one we made
through conversation and fate.

My masculinity mixes
with your femininity,

and just for a little bit,
we forget
that the world was built
to destroy people like us.