if we could churn things out in seconds,
i'd make you a tape of my top 3 songs I'd want to ******* to.
.It'd start with something fast-paced,
a song that would be standing up
a quickie but a "we can't help it, we have to right now" quickie,
not sloppy, just fast-paced.
loud and intense and back against the wall, hair grabbing, *** grabbing,
guitars blaring in the background, the beat matching my heart racing as you bend me over
.but the next song would be slower. It'd be the nights we didn't plan on it,
the ones where we already said goodnight and we tried to go to sleep
but I accidentally rolled closer into you and couldn't resist one kiss on the cheek
which made me want to kiss you more and then we're accidentally ******* and ending up having to say goodnight again.
Probably an acoustic, lyrics something about love.
.The next song would be classic. Something you're not allowed to really hate because it's by an artist you're kind of forced to respect? And you like it, really. It'd probably be one of my favorites by an artist I know you love. It'd play in the background and we wouldn't really notice it exactly until later down the road when we're on our own somewhere hearing it and wondering why the song reminds us of each other. It would be a song that just ended up playing one time while on shuffle in the parked car, us pretending nothing else was really present except that back seat.

I already have a lot of shuffled car songs that remind me of us in moments,
parked in the rain
from when kissing never got farther than kissing.

as I am growing as a lover, I am appreciating music in a new sense,
associating it with feeling from my own auto-biography of emotion,
associating those feelings with images from collect moments
and I am so glad some songs will always bring me back to right now
in this collection of moments and images and feelings
in these picture-perfect memories I have of rain on the windshield right before you kissed me while you played the Smiths
or while last summers shuffle of pop punk played while we fogged up the windows in a baseball field
and I am glad that once my mind can no longer form or remember the picture-perfect moments,
and I won't be able to put together the scenery,
I will at least be reminded of the feeling through a song.

It’s not about the hand you were dealt with,
It’s about how you play the hand you were dealt with.

But
Imagine that the hand you were given
attached to fingers
with blistered pads and splintered prints
that wound in swirls of blood soaked skin.
Imagine, that the nails of each finger
crucified you to stars
willing you to brighten the night
for children who fear the dark
regardless of your burns.
Imagine, that your palms
were crumpled pieces of paper
stuffed into the back of a trash bin
on fire,
the burning smell of garbage and secrets
indistinguishable from one another.

See
Some people,
they are given hands lined with rings;
diamonds, silvers, and golds
not a single callous and well-manicured.
Some people,
they are given boneless pieces of plastic
that fail to do so much
as curl and unfurl themselves:
hands that are growing desperate to feel
the things they touch.
Some people,
they are given scabbed knuckles
that shake so bad
they can only find comfort
in scratching themselves henna tattooed scars;
digging six feet into their skin,
creating burial sites out of their own bodies.

Tell them anyway,
It’s about how you play the hand you were dealt with.
It may never make a winner out of them
But it will keep them from leaving the game entirely.

(1)

The tremulous reaction
to her guileless approach;
the terrible attraction,
the terror of her touch

the unaccustomed measure
of closed lips taking aim;
the merest feather pressure
and I fled home in shame.


(2)

Her lips touched mine
as soft and gentle
as the feathered brush
of a butterfly’s wings,
and then they parted
oh, so slightly,
and I froze
and turned
and ran away.

And through the decades
that have since elapsed,
one thought is ever present
with me.
What if I had
simply responded
at that time?
How might my life
have changed?

i will smash every clock
if it means that time will stop
because i'd rather be anxiously waiting
for things to fall apart
than for things to start

no one sees this part of me
the part of me that loves the irony of a watch
being tied to time from time to time
to match an outfit
when that time keeps ticking ticking ticking
away the days i have left to say
i am a put together person
look, i even put a watch on for sophisticated taste