there are rumors
about me
loving you

people must have gathered
my thoughts
my longings
sweet desires

like feathers
flowing on my breath

into one direction…….

Green face paint.
Little conversations.
Budding love
with no complications.
A warm blanket
laid over me.
My cheeks are flushed
I feel oddly giddy.

Look-
then look away.

For we cannot see
when I look at you,
when you look at me.
That was the beginning,
let us know no end
because life is a story
and you are holding the pen.

i wrote a poem.
it was like our time, short, sweet
but now its over.

When I was younger
I was stick thin.
My aunt pulled my mom aside and cautiously whispered
Do you think she's been eating enough?
My third grade teacher
gave me the nickname
Skinny Minnie,
my gym teacher told me to
go eat a cheeseburger.

Now I look in the mirror
and cannot find my younger self.
My aunt did not blink an eye
when I said
I'm not hungry.
My teacher does not question
when I bring only a water bottle to lunch,
someone, please,
tell me to go eat a cheeseburger,
because I have only eaten
two-hundred calories today
but no one is calling me skinny.

I need you to know
that I no longer write about you.

Don't ever fall in love with a poet
because they will indeed admire and watch your every move
they will write about how the pen marks on the side of your palm when you write
don't ever because they will trace
every single freckle you have on your face and
write about the color of each and every one of them and
describe how they smile so brightly under the sunlight
they will want you to want to know every little thing about them
even if it's just what hand they write with and want you
to be wondering why they write with that specific hand when in
reality it doesn't even matter

the poet will watch the way you dig
your eyes onto that book and your small quick remarks onto the 26 letters all crumpled together and will know that everyday at 5:28 p.m. you smile

they will look deeply into your eyes
to see if they can at least take a little
peak of your soul and they will write
about you like if you were the only
thing they see good in this world

they will want to know what you think
about when you look at them and
see if you also count each and
every freckle and hope and write  
that you do but they will
love you endlessly and they will
show you that they love you and only you

but don't date a poet if you aren't
capable to watch them and
admire their imperfections
when they sleep late at night
beside you.

j.f

I'm sorry I took so long to get this stuff back to you.
I don't want to come back into your life now.
You seem happier than when I knew you.
I think my cons always outweighed my pros.
I'm sorry if I hurt you.
I tried so hard not to, I swear.
Things just fall apart.
This isn't meant to be sad.
**** it.
Alright, positive stuff.
I hope you're okay.
I hope you know things will always be okay.
I'm sorry we don't talk anymore.
I think we're both getting better without each other.
I think you're getting better.
It's hard to tell.
Please get better.
Godspeed.

I don't remember, any more,
The exact shape of your hands
As I held them in mine,
Caressed them,
Memorized the length of your fingers,
The depth of your calluses.

I don't remember, any more,
Exactly your height, how much
Taller than me
You were, where
My head rested on your chest
When you held me tightly close.

I don't remember, any more,
Your scent, when we lay together
Creating our own
Magic rhythm,
Matching our heartbeats as we
Touched the sky, together.

I don't remember, any more,
The sound of your voice, calling
My name as though
It were a song
Within itself, a precious treasure
You valued with all your being.

And I don't remember, any more,
The color of your eyes, the shape
Of your lips,
Only...
How your eyes crinkled at the corners
And your laugh, as you told me,

"I love you."

My sadness is mediocre
My words are bland
The thoughts I think were thought before me, I don't understand.
I don't understand why I feel the way I do
But that's supposed to be okay because neither do you..
or you,
...or you.

I'm sorry but I don't want to be like you, though.
I don't want to be a piece of the pie.
I want to be the pan that the pie shapes itself after.
I want to be a blade, a shepherd, and an imprint in time.

My hair is curly, brown, with bronze streaks.
My mood is fairly down with sullen words my world sinks.
Her hair was dark, eyes containing broken earth and lullabies.
My love was true, the only thing not mediocre and that isn't a lie.

Let's dance on a table in a diner full of orphans, and try not to be slaves
to our loneliness.
...Do you love me?
Yes.
...Oh, okay.

Sometimes I want to die so ******* badly, it's hilarious.
I can't **** myself in case she comes back. How amazing.
I can't cut myself because I don't want to scar my flesh because if I do
it may decrease my chances of getting her back.
Even my motivation is mediocre, and my tolerance so strong it could be
mistaken as pathetic.

Put me in a silver chair from across the room she'll stare. My love will go nowhere and I swear to God we are eternal. And you and I infinite, and the world is the wind behind our feet as we run into the inaudible where the world is mute and where our love is loud, in and on my lips you trace the words you did imprint and from lightning you strike the lettered indents you did or did not meant. I cannot decide.

My mouth tastes of chocolate milk, 1993, and 1996.

Insomnia stains my eyes. I can't go to sleep because I see you.

That was so mediocre.