If you feel lonely,
I was lonely too.
I long to know, you, pale cryptic thing, beyond my reach.
If only, I could breech-
space and time for some sliver of a moment-
to tell you-
I'm sorry.
You'll never know
that the sound your boiled blood makes reaches me-
I'm sorry.
Believe me, when I say,
I meant to build something to keep us safe,
together.
But the tempest was too strong.
And my will to weak.
And I can't help but linger of your graceful physique.
I mourn
for my shards that came smashing through your pastel stained windows,
tumbling onto your nicely kept white sheets.
A home made of skin,
so delicately adorned.
I think you're tasteful.
I think you're tastey.
I think you're.
I think you.
I think.
I.
What it all boils down to.

You are the East, and Juliet is the sunrise.
My hedonism tangles the 3 of us in demise-
I despise-
Myself for it.
I long to be punched by your

"soft little fists"

as he once said.

I long to know.
I long too.
I long.
I.

Lying beneath the stars longing to feel your honest heart beet.
Returning to the dirt we came from, I can feel your breath hot and sticky filling the gap between us.
Scrupulously steaming us vegetables.
I can't help but imagine biting into your savory peel.
Some say the skin is the most nutritious part.
I inhale the ripe droplets dewing across you,
and wonder what we'd look like mashed together.
Stuck in a blender.
Ripped apart and delicately reassembled.
And then I remember,
That we already were.

I've fiercely rejected the monotonous
monogamous
mainstream
madness,
for a forest of lovers.
I've asked for a bouquet of boys freshly cut beaming above my bedside table.
Spruced alongside sprinkles of sensual femininity offering scintillating chatter as I slip asleep.
As I am many galaxies in one girl,
giving myself can be quite gaudy;
One wooer would soon wither away under such wavering weathers.

I am an old stool that sits at the corner of a soggy bar.
Peoples names etched into me like rigged little scars.
Surrounded with scraps of sad saps coaxing demons from within their repertoire.
Shadows of pretty pale faces twisted in the dim light collect over the years.
I'm sticky from thousands of spilt beer and silent tears.
I cling to your worn jeans as you rest upon me.
You find it cozy; I am the only one that holds onto you with desperation and not the other way around.
But don't be outfoxed.
I don't need you.
I don't need you like the juke box ****** needs the needle hidden in his socks.
I don't need you like the bartender needs his private bottle of Jamison to soothe his own life's hard knocks.
I don't need you like the blonde at the end of the counter needs someone's beer stained breath hot against her coin slot.
Because I'm just a stool.
An old fool,
forgotten in the corner of your soggy cesspool.

I'm avoiding the shower,
because I don't want to watch the remains of you circle down the drain.
I'll have to watch your scent peel from my skin and disappear into a greedy steamy cloud.
I'll look down at my body and miss the way your fingers looked holding the notches in my hips, and then it will remind me of the view from over your shoulder as you hold me deeper into your chest, and that will make me mad with the thought of your face buried in my hair.
I'll wash my neck and accidentally pretend my hand was yours thoughtfully caressing the nape, and then I'll lean my head on my hand and pretend it was your shoulder and linger there a little too long.
I'm avoiding the shower because, I've come to love the dirt cozied beneath my fingernails like I am beneath your arms.

Dangling time in front of my face.
A rythmic ace.
East to west. East to west.
Ensnared.
By this chain as it wraps around my chest.
Hexed, dancing towards the edge of a chasm.
C ontorting for you cynicism
               U nvieling for you undived attention.
     R easoning for your recoilation.
    S alivating for your sensuality.
E xcusing your erosion.   ----
D ancing in my delusion. ---
You are the jack of spades.
A master of trades.
Colder than the queen of diamonds you've plucked from my mind and displayed.
I am the rabbit you'll rip from your mad hatter.
Impatiently awaiting my own dismal disaster.
Pounding my fists;
"Make this trick go faster!"
Getting mixed up with an illusionist was hasty and unplanned;
As my courage melts, he strokes my cheek
With his sleight of hand.

I am the creamy glass of milk
you've stolen from the easterners gods you're hastily slurping down
"for my own good".
Willing myself to turn sour in your mouth.
Begging you to spit me out, because I'd rather be anywhere other than splashing around your rotten yellowed teeth.
Mindful of the approaching date you've slapped on my side,
robbing me of my cured potential, so rich and golden.
As I'm sliding down your throat I cheers to hoping I curdle your stomach, like you've curdled mine.