Endless lengths of pavement
Blurred city street lamps
after
Blurred city street lamps
Wheels constantly turning under us.

the only thing i know for sure
in this moment is how good my
hand feels holding yours.

this poem has no further message,
motives, regrets or sad endings.
It merely stands as a
timeless monument
to a
singular moment.

it read sixty-five miles
per hour on our way out
of town. My heart was happy
and so was I, (the two are
so rarely spinning in sync.)

it read zero when we reached
the next town and let our feet
move us instead. I can't tell you
how fast we traveled then but my
heart was running faster than the
most technical speedometer could
hope to even guess.

the drive home was forty-five, much
slower and with much purpose. and
as the familiar lights came into view
I realized that I wanted nothing more
than to be 30 miles backwards, in
the unfamiliar town, and stay there
with you
longer.

Every Night. I smoke and
recall that Mr. Bukowski
was disciplined and wrote
Every Night. And yet instead,
I laugh it off and smoke again.
Force my ink to stay away
from that mistress-paper.
and I wearily i wake up
Every Morning. to find one
less poem, ten less lines.

The drugs need me only
slightly less than
i, them.

to the icelandic girl asleep
on my couch

i find you beautiful and
fascinating in a way i've
never found a american
girl. i find myself lacking
words, to speak to you or
to write about it. enigmatic,
it seems.

and it seems i'm far too
american for your tastes
it's written all over my ego
and fears, prescriptions and
words. you can tell. i can tell
i am of no romantic interest to
you.

but your smile?
makes frozen glaciers
forcefully crash
down

She has the strangest
case of
nyctophobia. The Night
sends her into a hurried
hurried mess, eager to
greet again the sun

Stay with me for the night!
Be my lover for the night!

and you consider
and you surrender

because you have a fear of
The Sun. Ante Meridiem.
so give in!
        fear controls your body
and she controls your fear

You know,
when you open
up to her
Inspiration comes
running at you. Throwing
herself at
you.
almost.

We drown,
in each other
in the ink of pens
the glow of the screen
the lines of the paper
the vibrations in sound
you can find us there
eternally breathing
each other
in

but don't try too hard to find us
a little privacy please!