old light. there's
mold on your
information.

your me
is flipped through
photo album. i am

somewhere between
the solar spasms,
deleted and spatial,
****** off. holding

no grudge, i
just can't care
that hard anymore. all

i want is
soaring silent synths
and eyes, mine, closed,
holding vacuums on the lids.

Their lips touched in the autumn air,
under the tree he had always loved.
his hair tickled his chin,
they both giggled,
what a sin.
if this is sin, so be it
love, burst, explosions that I will die for.
their hands tangled with such scandal
the roman air smelled nice
they saw their graves
but nothing came with more worth
than the ritual of love.

Sentence after sentence pours into my windstorm
A broken song, littered limbs of poems

I wonder when I’ll finally sleep
Without words floating over my head
A sword’s edge I crave
         Reaching out to slice my palms on
Some sweetness drips from the pain
        A watered down truth
        Veritas in my lips

love is patient,
love is kind.

thom yorke keeps telling me that true love waits
so why do i feel that waiting has made me weak.
(like i'm letting you get away with something)

i am not patient,
nor kind.
i am envious, and boastful.
i keep a record of how wrong i feel.

you drink champagne from a wine flute
but only on occasion
maybe socially, it makes you someone
people want to talk to
i drink beer
alone
at home
watching you