I can't keep my eyes off
your legs in that black
dress that you wear
with hidden elegance
that appears on the edges
of your smile. Faint. Shining.

As your lips tremble
underneath my touch
I know I've been
blind before this
moment.

How can
one so delicate
and pretty, oh
so pretty, destroy
herself with each
and every glance
in broken mirrors
and shattered
glass.

You're playing
on the phonograph
in my basement.
On repeat and shuffle,
scrambling back and forth
across memories, conversation
pieces like an orchestra
tying together my heart
with yours with
each vibration
across the needle.

"You smoke too many cigarettes"
she claims with the sun beating
on her face like her father
Drunk and heavy-handed.
"I'm worried about your health"
Her hand clutching my hand
like the Moon to the Earth,
altering tides and currents
thoughts and memories.
Occupying every conceivable
second of every single day.

You crash lips like I crash cars.
You smile smiles that make me want to die.
You make me want to live.
You make me want to try.
You.
You.

You laugh, you cry.
I lie, I lie.
You love me.
You hate me.

I'm weak. I can't do this.
I'm weak. I'm not a man.
I'm a boy.
I.
I.

We're stupid. We're cute.
We're perfect. We're life.
We.
We.

Mister Frost, you're not the only
one who has been acquainted
with Night.
Her soft shadows, and
enveloping, luscious curves.

Robert, you're not the only
one who walked through rain
and back in rain.
It's cold blanket, and
comforting, familiar taste.

Miss Palmer, you're not the only
one who has been acquainted
with the Darkness of the Day.
His harsh light, and
blinding, searing smiles.

Robert,
Amanda,
it is a terrifying sight, because
we are living the same way.

Sometimes you might find me,
in a back alley, throwing up my guts,
in explosions, of green and orange.

Sometimes you might find me,
in a rundown apartment, with a ceiling fan
that arcs crookedly, hitting the ceiling in
explosions of drywall and poverty

Sometimes you might find me,
in a sunny park, scribbling lines in a
worn, tattered notebook,
in explosions, of ink and passion

Sometimes you might find me,
outlined in chalk, battered, bruised, ******
in explosions of red and abuse.

Sometimes you might find me,
standing beside you, walking with
and guiding you in explosions of
anger
and
I told you so's.

Your heart beats in a parasitic pattern
Clinging and stealing whatever
and whoever you **** well please.