I wish I had the time to research
biology and chemistry and physics to relate our bodies
to electricity, come up
with a simile for *** and science.

But I doubt there would be any translation
of how your breath
raises polka dots on my skin.

I do not know what else that could mean
except there are insects
with as many legs as I have minutes spent on thinking
about well you learned to whistle.

At 4 am,
When you can't sleep,
I dream of being the cigarette
That you indulge in on the back
Porch, loosely holding it between
Your fingers like you once held on
To me and softly exhaling it like
You did my memory.

At 6 am,
When you can't awaken,
I yearn to be pill that you slip
Beneath your tongue and the
Tingle that resonates within
Your bones like the sensation
I once thrived upon from the
Touch of your lips.

At midnight,
When you can't think straight,
I desire to be the bottle that you
Clutch between your two hands
The way you gripped my throat
The night we made love when you
Begged me to scream that I was
All yours (and I was).

I don’t want to feel your absence in my bones.
I don’t like the way my veins stretch, outwards,
like they’re trying to make their way back to you.
Because it only serves to remind me how
even I don’t call my body “Home.”
I don’t want to feel your absence in my bones.

I am the bobby pins and hair clips you find in corners of your room, on your dresser, or behind your bed.

I am the pictures on your wall that I made when I was once manic.

I am the crumbs you find in your bed that was once my “three or four nights a week bed” which I used as a table.

I am the cafe where we met, and kept meeting.

I am day drives to no where.

I am the Middletown train station before the movies.

I am the mint lotion that keeps the bugs away.

I am the notes I would leave you, that found their way on your wall.

I am the bandaids.

I am that strand of medium length brown hair you will find in your shower

I am that guy, from trivia at that other cafe, that I wanted us to be friends with.

I am the hands that would unlock your locked pointer finger.

I am that key on your key chain.

I am the leftover tea that is always too hot for me to drink, and is left near your bed.

I am ice cream with CHERRIES, and edamame.

I am the sheets on your bed.

I am the downing film theater when you needed to feel better.

I am New Jersey.

I am the reason Netflix recommends Independent dramas with strong female lead. I am the netflix.

I am the stain on your mattress.

I am the drool on your pillow.

I am the sugar in your cabinet above your roomates whiskey.

I am all of the groceries and dates I paid for.

I am all those pictures of me on your phone which made their way to your computer.

I am the light wash boyfriend jeans.

I am that bottle of wine that sits with all other bottles, that you see when you walk out of your room and into the kitchen, and out the door.

I am the reason you once felt content.

I am the reason the corkscrew sits on that stool.

I am the reason why your toothbrush is wet, before you use it.

I am the two red sharpie marks left on those sheets that I got us.

I am mexico. The trip to mexico that could have almost seemed doable.

I am the sent of oils which remind you of hippies.

I am the shoes left at your door, or the teavana jug of tea in the kitchen right now.

I am the fourth of July. I am that pool we never swim in. I am the projected films on the fence.

I am the talker, the thought keeper, the fighter, the writer.

I am Sensual Amber

I am UBE

I am my legs on the wall when I dry them.

I am the tiny pills on your dresser.

I am just someone your next girlfriend will be better than.

I am the bobby pins.

There is a room.
And in this room there is a man and woman soon to be awake.
On their respective sides of the bed are nightstands with congruent photos.
These two photos are the very fibers that keep their marriage alive.
What kind of bond is held together by pictures?
The kind that includes a 75 year old man and a 77 year old woman.
Both have severe Alzheimer's.
So every morning, they wake as strangers, remembering nothing of the other.
Everyday, they wake to learn each other, only to repeat the cycle the following morning.
They say ignorance is bliss;
But there is a room, and in this room lies the proof  that it's not.

Lying is a skill like anything else;
And its one she flaunts around behind her innocence.
She jumps from suitor to suitor draining every benefit Possible until she's satisfied,or until she's made.
Pleading the damsel in distress card, she always attains What she desires.
She's a tornado;
Selfishly destroying everything around her in a fit of Rage, she tires out into a corpse.