They loved each other so deeply,
They never resurfaced

Bones forgot the pull,
the tug and the grimace
that happens
when someone burrows
between the lungs to live.
Bones forgot the burn and sting
that heart feels when it stops,
when it jumps to throat, skips.
Body forgot that emotions
meant brain AND heart,
eyes, tongue and lips.
Girl forgot that boy
could kiss and make
her forget
all that was forgotten.

he tastes of
fresh coffee and old memories
mixed together with
swallowed sentiments
that neither of us
is brave enough
to say.

My lover is
     strong, kind and tender,
but when he held me in his arms
he confessed that he felt
                                          less of a man
because we were clothed only in
vulnerability
but hadn't known each other yet.
                   "Any other guy would jump at this opportunity" he said.
"But you're not any other guy,"
I said.
"And that's why I'm laying here"

we play house.
he makes us coffee
and
i wear his shirts.

we play house.
he drinks his feelings
and
i stare at the ceiling while he sleeps.

we play house*.

In the night,
I saw his mind
bury him in a
dark place.
        A place that none
        of my kisses or whispers
        could pull him out of.
Yet all my heart
could say was,
*"My lover,
come back to
my arms."

That smile, right?
He was smooth.
He could tell you the sky was
green and you'd believe him.
Soon you felt special.
You were the escape,
the safe haven, right?
Promises were made in seconds,
and were supposed to last forever.
Like when you talked about running away.
Leaving one town for the next, heck, even
a new country.
All doors seemed open.
Until you started to go through one and
BAM!
You smacked into the glass lens of a
CNN news camera
Alone.
The smile was gone.
The promises broken.
Now it's inquisitions and allegations.
It's the 6'o'clock news and tear soaked pillows.
It's memories that were burnt into your mind
waking you up at night.
But who hasn't been taken in, only to be shoved out?
I mean, it takes 2 to tango, Monica,
but we all have dance cards that we wish weren't punched.
I guess the only difference between us is
*your guy was married

You try to tell me what I am,
using "friend" over and over

But I know what  I am

I am the rugburn on your forearm that you cover with your sleeve
       the sweat on the back of your neck
        and the tightness of your jeans
I am the look back from that night as you drove away
       the text message you sent, asking to "hang out" again the next day
I am the tightness in your chest at night
         the forbidden fantasy during the day
         the secret from your parents
         the story to your friends
But I am not something to be controlled or domineered
So that's why now
**I am the one who walked away.

A poet wants...
    Someone who adores everything they've ever written
    (because it means they adore us)
But a poet needs...
      Someone who's honest, who tells us when it's not our best work
      (because it makes the good work even more special)
A poet wants...
    Someone to hold close every night. Someone who loves to have poems breathed into their collarbone while they sleep
     (because it inspires long love poems)
But a poet needs...
      Someone who spends a few nights away. Someone who forgets to call occasionally
       (because it inspires real poems)
A poet wants...
    Everything to be perfect. To be able to edit and rewrite life as it happens, so we never have to feel pain
    (because then we wouldn't have to feel embarrassed about the unshared poems in our journals)
But a poet needs...
    Pain. Imperfection. Mistakes. Life.
     (because it allows us to write to feel to forgive to learn. To bleed out our heartbreak with ink and parchment. To reach out to each other with words)
All because a poet thrives on the difference between *want and **need

i breathed him in
like a drag off of
one of his cigarettes,
long
slow and
cool.
i held him in
before exhaling
and promised
this time would be
my last.

he slept facing his dreams,
lost in a world that didn't feel
the kisses i gently placed along his spine
or hear the "my darling, i love you" that i breathed
into his skin.
he slept facing his dreams,
and i laid against him,
facing mine.

I perched on my rock and beckoned him,
filling my lungs with sea air and
exhaling words that tasted sweet.
I watched his ship as it slowed,
and I saw his men corral to the rails,
clawing and calling and cursing
at me.

He approached the rail
with tearful eyes,
and a discontented heart
that I sang so softly to soothe.
As he dove to the swelling sea
I stitched together a song of glory and romance and paradise
for his ears alone.

He swam toward me
across an ocean of desperation
that he had so avidly denied,
and louder I sang.
When he struggled and faltered
I promised him more with
the breath of my lungs and
the gleam of my eyes,
I cheered my sailor on.

Exhaustion filled his ears
so that he could not hear me,
the ocean surged to fill his lungs,
and I swam to save my love.
I dove and I cradled and I carried
and I laid him down upon the sand.
A caress of his cheek and all he could say
was, "Sing for me, please".

I laid on the sand and comforted him,
filling my lungs with sea air
and exhaling words that tasted sweet.
I watched his chest as it slowed,
and in the distance I saw his men corral to the rails,
clawing and calling and cursing
at me.

He approached his end
with tearful eyes
and a broken heart
that I sang so softly to soothe.
And as he dove into the afterlife
I stitched together a song of glory and romance and paradise
for his ears alone.

He swam away from me,
across an ocean of ethereal waves
that he so avidly defied,
and louder I sang.
When he struggled and faltered
I promised him more with
the heave of my lungs and
the glint of tears in my eyes,
I coaxed my sailor on.

Death filled his ears
so that he could not hear me,
the ocean surged with his stolen breath,
And I sang to quiet my love.
I cried and I held and I mourned
and I laid myself down upon the sand.
A caress of his cheek and all I could say was,
"Wait for me, please."

Life is the mixing of
voices
dreams
bones
and
fears.

I wrote about him
over a year ago.
He was one of my
     most inspirational muses
that became one of my
     softest kisses
     purest loves
     sweetest memories.
Which makes it even more painful
to realize that he also became
one of my
        biggest heartbreaks.

he tasted faintly of cigarettes and black coffee-
a single kiss satisfied all my vices

its been long enough
that the memories
are starting to fade
from the glare
of reality.
but the one moment
i still feel
as vividly now
as i did then
is when he stared into
my deepest parts and whispered
this? this right here? its real.

the only thing i feel
more vividly than that
is the hurt from realizing
**it wasn't true

I listened to his heart beat
night after night.
I felt it beneath my ear
my hand
my lips.
I traced it and cherished it.
I even tucked my own away
inside it...

Few things hurt more
than the realization
that it doesn't beat for me
like mine does for him.

two people,
so very broken
that they had to
borrow and share
each other's
pieces to
finally feel
whole

I wonder if the stars know how many
love poems
promises
sighs
serenades
slow dances
soft kisses
proposals
whispers
they've inspired.
I also wonder how many of them still yet wish they were the moon.

i write about him
so much
because i keep hoping
that he'll finally
let them in,
let them love him
comfort him
transform him
into the person
i'm actually writing about

i have a lover
      tender and innocent,
who tucks in his shirt
and brushes my arm
        when he walks by.
he is passionate and giving,
listens to classical music
and caresses my cheek
         when he kisses me.
i think i love him so
because of these things
          and also because
*he is the opposite of me

My skin
isn't fitting
anymore.
I wear it like a hand-me-down dress,
resentful of the way it
scratches itches pinches pulls pokes chokes
me.
It's tailored to fit someone else.
The person I used to be
but not this new me.
When I try to reach
I can feel it tear
with no point in trying to
repair it,
it doesn't fit me
keep me warm or
protect me.
I'm desperately fighting the urge
to rip it off with
nails teeth sheer will
ANYTHING
so I can free my rib cage and
inflate my lungs without restraint.
But as I examine the fabric
I realize I don't know what's
underneath.
What if I'm bare?
Nothing to hide behind or blame,
only my goose-bumped self
to stand before all eyes,
vulnerable?
Is freedom worth exposure?
The seams seem to grow tighter
as I contemplate,
"This is it.
I cannot wait."
**tear

i pour my soul
into him
but he's so broken
that it seeps out
the other  side
and we're both
left completely
empty.

How strange it is...

to have one man star in your dreams,
and wake up next to another...

to have already slept in those cold apathetic arms and left them outstretched,
yet they are the ones that reach out from the gossamer void...

to have been shown love and warmth and awake next to him gladly,
but still feel the chill of the night inside your mind...

how strange it is...

to have control of your life back,
yet not control of your dreams...

Falling through graceful realms,
I am unafraid.
Tucked safely in my mind
behind closed eyelids,
I am subjected to the
parade of my subconscious.
Before my ethereal self
the fancies of my foolish
heart dance to the
lively circadian rhythm
with lavish costumes and tricks,
disguising themselves as a
bizarre and random
dream