My head and heart have never
been on speaking terms–
one's always ******* to the other.
Or one becomes submissive
and shuts the world out to survive.

It gets old.

It gets old really fast.

Trust between the two wanes,
but never fades completely;
leaving room for apathy
or even worse:

Depression.

Objectivity becomes obsession.
Silence becomes heavy.
My body tears at the seams
trying to accommodate this
****** issue of trust.

But at the end of the day
the threads pull tightly.

Until they finally split.

I prefer things this way.

            You- six hours ahead,
                        late night Skype calls,
                        makeshift air mattress bed,
                        videogame ******,
                        dashing looks
                        and a passion to match.

            Me- six hours behind,
                        sleepless nights,
                        early mornings,
                        multivitamin lunches,
                        lovely words
                        and escaping dreams.

            Us- six hours apart,
                        four-thousand plus miles
                        separating our bodies,
                        yet enriching our relationship
                        one new discovery at a time.
                        Fighting for the fleeting
                        moments we can share
                        until the long-term sets in.

Some say we’re bound to fail.
Some say we’re setting ourselves up
for a collectively shattered heart.

I say we’re here to prove them wrong.

You had your words and I had mine.
But where your words were beautifully crafted,
mine were a jumbled mess.

“I don’t know why...”

Wait.

That’s the biggest lie I’ve ever written.
I know exactly–
Why I don’t write.
Why I can’t write.
Why I’m terrified to write.

Every time I open my laptop–
I’m loading that hollow point bullet into
the cylinder, giving it a casual last roll,
and pressing the muzzle to my temple

Every time I push my pen to the paper–
I’m finishing up that thirteenth rung on a
noose and slipping it tightly over my throat,
standing at the edge of the seat, waiting to take a step.

Every time I think–
Every time I write–
I hesitate.

And you make it sound so simple.

You can pull a beautiful phrase from the skyline
and have a masterpiece in minutes,
while I set here scheming for hours;
trying to expel just a word or two from my consciousness.

It really ****** me off that you can do that.

You know?

I had a fleeting thought that people were like rain...

     We start in the clouds

          Are born into the sky

               We sometimes share ourselves with others

          and then we fall towards the ground
          forgetting to enjoy the ride on the way down...


                         At least we're sure to meet again in the puddles.