(Adj)*            
Obscure /əbˈskyo͝or/

I don't know where I am
I don't know who I am,
but I know that
you like to keep your left arm
swinging out of the window
or you hate when
I turn my head in the
opposite direction of your
face.
The windows and windshields
fear of kissing you
at the wrong time
and so do I.
"You've passed by this forest
just about a thousand times!"
you've always hated
the act of getting lost.
Yet I still don't know who I
am.
I have not a clue where I
am.*
But I do know
you love
drinking whiskey from
the bottle when you've
told me to take the wheel.
I know your favorite
color isn't really a color,
its a shade, and you love
staring out at it when
your head is glued to the
side of the window
on the passenger side of
this car.
I don't know where I am, or who
I must be but I do
know you and your little things.
*Here's to getting caught with you.

Strangers to the touch:
he was fast to dive into
the waves that were
indeed
his briny deep.
She, whom took
his complexion into
the trench that is her,
also took the senile
artistry that was he,
recklessly.
Strangers to the act:
he took the palm
of his over-dramatized
antagonist of his own
life and just
pressed it.
She  caressed the
thought of it,
yet still arose
to find her most
fragile protagonist
grazing his head
on the
adolescent but corrupt
land line that made up
as her thighs.

Strangers they must be,
though, strangers
whom have
found need in
the halves that have
halves in half.

There are tales
that have been spoken
about the ones
who fell
too young
or naive.
Though you know me,
every time we kissed
the color ran off my cheeks.
and so it begins, with a
pounce of a key,
a tale of two, maybe three
lovers who fell too naive:

You speak in such tone
which leaves me in awe.
Every syllable, every line
you enunciate lives
in my own gallery
of things you do that
make me urge to keep.
I graze the side of your face
constantly fiddling away
at the stubble on your jaw,
or the thin strips of wonder
on the top of your skull,
and all I can imagine is
the *Sun.
Naive it may be,
but my Sun boy I
will keep.

(n)                
in·fi·del·i·ty /infiˈdelitē/*
I have a place where
I take the things that I
want to say, but mustn't
belt out loud.
You told me that
I wouldn't want the
world to hear the things
that scare me,
only because
you didn't want it
to be used
against
me.
I write down the
things that aren't
supposed to be in
my head, only
because you told me
that I shouldn't be
worrying about things
that aren't worth
it.
Since the first day
(middle of December, or
something like that)
you have been
taking care of me
even when I
told you not to
worry.
You threw around
kisses that
carried a sort of
incredible gravity.
Gave out
your signature
on papers that
also had mine.
(Oh honey, you gave me
the kind of love that
I've seen on the
television. What more
could I want?)
Although
even the most
sober entanglements
ask:
(Where are you?)

There's a moment where nothing is being said
and nothing is the absolute meaning
to this absence of a pity conversation
that was better off never said.
The rules read:
1: Touch her skin.
Take the particles that make up
her oatmeal skin into your hands
and refuse to take it back.
2: Grab her face.
Bottle up all your enemies,
take her colored cheeks
to your ruthless thumbs
and simply
graze.
3: Look at her eyes.
Remember all things
that once damaged her
or the ones who have told
her too much already.
And find out the very things
she insists on keeping from
you.
4: Don't you dare ******* blink.
Don't you ******* choose to forget
the way she looked at you, the way
you did the same when she put the
auburn roses upon your cheeks.