When you get used to being around someone,
you memorize where your things can't go,
(the cellphone on the windowsill, glass on the
dresser) because they -
the person that is -
and everything about them and with them and on them
occupy that space.
Their collective useless clean-up-after-me crap jams and crams and
fills themselves (maybe by magic, perhaps by fate)
into places where only you and the great clean air around you used to go,
and you want to **** them for taking over this sacred space - or at least tear
their throat a little with your teeth - their
***** underwear and the piles on piles of plastic freezie wrappers and
crumpled receipts
dig and claw their way into your skin. they burn and choke and burrow in
so deep
that
you
miss them when they're g n . But of course,
that isn't what you think of always. Not really.

Every under appreciated, suffocating action, every
dagger word, the electric pulse that tore through your skin because
they brushed up against the wrong part of you
(sometimes, unknowingly, the right part of you)
suddenly disappears with them.
And you, unforgotten, loved, have to stay.


and when they're gone their smell sticks to you
                                    for a little while.

Hazel skies and navy depths
Peer at the poor and plain
Rough almonds turn to bars of gold
Under the fall of that gaze
Ivory bands of comfort and warmth
Hold a heart that remains true
The soft flit of butterfly wings
Stir with thoughts of you
Darkness beckons with longings lost
Melancholy begs you stay
The silken honey of sorrow's tears
Cascade as you fade away
A ghost between us survives the past
Unkept memories smile, full of unease
You are loves labour lost
A haven in stormy seas

a little haiku
to tell you i love you - more
than tins of coffee

you are like lattes
warm bubbles of love and smiles
stirred to perfection

carefully I sip
you burn my tongue - gingerly
i try it again

Yearning for this [undiscovered] un-desire,
the gift is heavy; a pregnant darkness, the naissance
of this elixir bittersweet; liquid metallic bruise.
Burning excitement, disappointed surprise,
ripping and tearing and exposing a veiled universe of
inconceivable ideas and notions, ringing clear;
                 unwanted.
I've longed for your arrival, suffocating myself with
the intoxication of the anticipation. Yet,
you were born into this world faceless, uncongenial,
                  mine.

A girl who suffers from chronic nostalgia smiled at me today;
I think the cancer of loving the unlovable is eating away at her soul.
She looks so old, so young, so weary of the wonderful;
I-can-do-anything girl. But she can’t do this.

This impression of inability must have come slowly at first;
syrup on snow. Sweetly it expanded, cutting its own insidious path
in the soft contours of her mind, furtively filling in crevasses, sugar-coating
the crux, hiding the increasing decay.

Distracted, she let it grow unnoticed, deafened to the roaring silence.
Whispers began climbing out of stillness imperfect; Swelling Deficient;
Thundering IMCOMPLETE. A pinwheel of doubt and insecurity;
She became dizzy with the beautiful fractured truth of it.

I think it became her mantra. The words reverberated through
the hollows of her mind, striking her core. Transformed, she realized with ultimate
certainty that she had discovered the secret in the dark kaleidoscope of her eyes.
Smiling, she looked beyond and into me, imitating.

this is how it is.

lover of the moon, red nail polish, and my body
poetry passionate
anaemic
patient listener
book worm
creature-infatuated
exotically home made
gutter-student
in-toe walker
ignorant genius of nothing and everything
insignificantly significant

this is me.

You float away on a cloud of forgetting
While I ink my way through life,
Together anticipating fathomless intangible depths that are so near;
we reach out, strive to cope
       [secretly]
Almost grasp and fail to see
           the world
beyond a blurry grain of sand.

In this sepulchre of sordid desire I rot,
sinking in obscure nostalgia,
waiting.

Lingering historic apparition, besetting me with
the echo of distant inexorable destinies, once intertwined.
You stir my soul. I close my eyes,
listening.

Through the seclusion of a dream arises a pathetic pathos.
The ephemeral vision of your frozen splendor moves me.
This is all it takes. A bittersweet smile transforms me,
remembering.

Your austere form marches to the scaffold, alone.
A river of blame and doubt streams through me, rejected.
forgiving.

I look down at my pale existence. The thin, yellow,
mildewed pages curl at the tips, scarred with the memory of you.
My soul expelled in ink; stricken, crossed, weighed down,
spent.

The past is diaphanous.
This is all. This is nothing.
Stop, look.
Live.

The crooked path of my unraveling spirit
twists amid crystal relics; icy recollections that
amble through cool ferns and bloodied twilights, absorbing
warm ivory sunlight leisurely
threading through daisy and lemon summers,
whispering days of rain and balmy nights under the moon, revisiting
unknown sects of lost words and sparkling snowflakes, reliving
the forgotten.