Have you ever been with someone you know you won’t work with but you’re with them anyway because…
I don’t know…
you’re already heartbroken…
what could you have to loose?

Tell me you don’t love me.
                     and the fingers I run through your hair are nimble caterpillars
that are strong enough to fly away now.

Kiss me so I know it’s not real;
    that each lascivious touch is a misconception of realms where I may actually have stability…
   and that you’ll make me breakfast in bed by glowing breaks of auburn rays tomorrow.

Tell me you used me.
To make the no one you never had jealous,
and she’ll want you back by morning.

               But reassure me that until then,
we’ll embrace in parked cars,
as roads around us disguise themselves with a mask of slick ice.

  and each groping breath for each other fogs up glass on a 2006 Mustang.

Let me wake to the mourning dove coo,
and empty beds.
Let my hands bleed with fingerprints of the reminiscent touches of you,
         and hand me no cleansing rag.

I gave up on attending church,
giving myself leeway to roll left, stretch right,
swaddled in the devoted and over emotional covers - of  the white.
I greeted the sun
when it deserved it
and I was ready for it’s rays of fuzzy gold.
I felt alive and welcomed,
being encompassed in it’s rays that clung to me.
And I clung back,
feeling healed by the power that can also destroy.
I was in love with it.
It kissed me.
The kiss of life and death.
Like you do,
soft, slow,
once.
Once.
I want it. I crave it.
I had already found myself longing for your lips
even before the indents on my skin from the heavy bracelets I wore all night could vanish from recirculation.

My leg’s - hands crept from thermo tile to thermo tile,
avoiding cracks- for the life of me.
Those tiles,
slick, hard, unforgiving, and rugged
that’s how I felt-
when I left your driveway that I knew I was supposed to stop and jump out of
and run back to your arms in.
But I didn’t.
Why didn’t I?
The air I’m now breathing alone was toxic,
I’m choking.

But why?
Why can’t we inhale
and build an immunity?
Like real people do.
Loving you is like
loving the sun that’s killing me but always there,
providing warmth I lust after and get burned from as my skin shrieks,
bringing vibrance to my life of white.
Every kiss is damaging and lethal over time
yet the radiation is addictive.

Hold on.
Please.
Don’t let the lambent flames we were adjacent to while studying supernovas-
stampede the stability you felt
when white sheet days turned purple,
and cantaloupe squares reflected orange from the moon,
that was still being reflected from the sun,
that’s always there.
Always.
Don’t take lightly the rest you had
against me on a long ride home-
and I touched your face.
and you knew.
I knew you knew.
I saw your shoulders tense with joy under a tie dye spread of blue and yellow,
and your toes scrunched.
I saw that.

Don’t forget Sundays.
Don’t forget white sheets.

It was when the anklet started fraying,
When I knew you’d never come back.
Maybe you’re body will return,
But you are lost,
And I am broken.
We weren’t always.
You were a psychology major,
And I worked at a deli.
We filled our daily mochas
With ignorance,
But of course,
It was topped with whipped bliss that was creamy and sweet and rolled down my throat like lava drooping down its volcanic fortress.
I rather be sick of you
Than missing you.
I can’t forget the turnover I felt
When the illuminating dancing flower maids in the streets of Boston turned gray.
You’re news stomped out,
They slapped me hard,
They grabbed you by your luscious mane
And dragged you away.
I know as time gets older it grows people out of shells,
Forcing their old skin to remain behind,
For it no longer has a purpose,
But I never thought your fresh soul
Would shed off your anklet too.

Shadow snaking in and out within the wet, black cement
Brain cells collide
In more than a rush to escape the provoking situation.
Spinning.
Spiraling.
Faster.
And faster.
The external view was cursed with two windows that the home residents never dared to look out upon.
The heart mistakenly pounced as the leaky French pipes dripped into the puddle formation.
Spinning.
Spiraling.
Fast.
And faster.
The windows liked it.
So they did the same.

The modest Rose puts forth a thorn:
The humble Sheep. a threatning horn:
While the Lily white, shall in Love delight,
Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright

It must've been a metaphor.
This one person bench,
calling my name,
mocking me.
I'm useless without her.
I'm an intricate doorframe;
beautifully handcrafted,
and carved of rosewood.
But as a door myself,
I'm missing a ****,
I have seeping holes,
and my past left behind
brutally rugged scratches and beats.