If I could kiss you on the lips,          
beneath the stars of deepest night    
I'd feel the dancing of your hips        
if I could kiss you on the lips          
possess your breath in small sweet sips  
until my heart with pleasure skips                                        
If I could kiss you on the lips          
beneath the stars of deepest night

your lips moved against mine,
growing hotter and wetter
your tongue a velvet lash of tormenting pleasure
bruising my lips with a fine edge of violence
we kissed with power and passion and hunger and love
passionately mating with lips and tongues and tiny bites
our flavors mingling and quickened breaths filling our lungs

Arc of light that lit your tears,
couldn't  lighten the darkest of your eyes.

Last night it shone in the skies,
the same arc with the purest light.

My riddled mind failed to read,
the arc was nothing but the moon itself,

because darker than the skies ,
he found your eyes with darkest skies

she has a list of all her stupid insecurities.
not an actual list, not written down,
but there are numbers of things
that she worries about, when she looks
into the mirror or talks to strangers or
hears her voice on recording or gets
dressed in the morning or enters a room
or talks or walks or before she falls asleep.

there is a list of things I do not love about her,
and there are two things on that list:
1) she is more than I can resist, and
2) I'll never have her.

so while she is off worrying about her weight,
about the way her hair looks,
about whether or not her nose is too big
and does her shirt match those shoes
and is she interesting, funny, charming enough
and does her age show, and is she pronouncing
that word correctly,

I am worrying about how I love her,
love her,
love her.

Blossoms of sweet cherry hue
I picked them all for you
My heart of love is beating still
All for you it ever will

*~Marian~

you are a bullet, pushing through everything & everyone
in your path only to achieve your happiness. somehow,
i always find myself behind the barrel of the gun. i cannot
conceal the self-inflicted bullet wounds like empty holes
with snakes sneaking out of the orifices. trying to suppress
the infection with outside sources is like treating a wound
with salt: it only gets worse each day. the recoil of the gun
is only becoming more common. thankfully, the sharp
pain has turned into a short resounding moan that wishes
itself to sleep and wistfully shoving the vague memories
back down into the ninety percent of my mind i do not use.
this is no fairytale ending. this is obliteration; this is a fallout.
this is the reality of a rapture, this is the third world war the
bible never warned us about, this is speaking in complete
silence. this is worse than complete loathing. this is what you
are not warned about. i understand now that i am the victim
of the many crimes you’ve committed and i still want everything
and more to do with my culprit. this is a colossal curse.

- kra

I've               never           met                    anyone
                                  who                                                    talks  so  fast
    with          such         bursting           enthusiasm!
                                                  who              is        so               enthralled
       by               every     little     detail !
                                who      is      so      visibly       excited about life        !  
   who          cares     so much                                        
         
          about      everyone                and       everything !

    
                     Cindy, where do you get the energy??


                                       I've been seeing you once a week for piano lessons,

but oftentimes it's felt more like sessions of therapy.
                                
              Get your weekly dose of Cindy!

  Before I can even get my books out,
                                           you'll break into your rapturous rant
          and I'll just sit there,     on the piano bench,
          utterly transfixed.

                                       
You'll talk about Beethoven, of poverty in Portugal, whatever Glen said at the last dinner party, German poetry, Justin Timberlake, back to Beethoven... And this isn't someone's mindless ramblings! Just the opposite! This stuff seems to be pouring directly from out of your heart. In an inexhaustible stream. And it's flowing out at such a speed that I start to wonder
                                            is she okay?
But then I'll catch a glimpse of my own reflection in the stream.
Not my face. Just a beating heart.
I'll compare it to yours.
It's painfully small.
I think if I tried pouring it out like that, it would soon        
dry out and shrivel up like a raisin.

*You've got a big heart. A huge heart. How else can you be so passionate about all these things?

“You reminded me of the sea
when I held you close to me;
a pretty shell you are
with a soothing melody. ”

The sorrow of the stars
Covers all of earth
Wet grass beneath my feet
Reminiscent of the golden birth
Dawn's fingers caress the sky
Her dawdling hands try to justify
Genocide with light, the world adorning
But the tears of the stars always remain
Remind
There's a reason we call it *mourning