my parents always told me i was a forgetful child,
who's little
pattering feet would go quickly running
back upstairs to double check,
even triple check the things i would need
or forget to carry with me,
as if i was a marionette puppet pulled by the knots on my fingers.

but it seemed as though no matter how many bows i could tie on my fingers and how many post-it notes were stapled around the house, my mind was a clutter of litter--
filled with little odds and ends
and useless junk to day to day living.
if my brain was a room it would resemble a crowded attic, full with the pieces of myself that i longed to get rid of but refused to, whether out of sheer stubbornness or fear, i still don't know.

it all changed when you came along. i was inspired to a point of frenzy. I was uncluttered, with the exception of my thoughts, because they were full of you. if my brain was a room, it would be a museum of glittering proportions, a massive archive of our affections.. this is art, a romanticized portrait of our time together. you had tattooed love etched on your skin, from all the things you grew passionate about and i swear i looked at my own skin and saw your ink seeping in between the cracks of my ribcage-- i used all of it to write out devotion. you were my favorite collection of destructive metaphors i sunk into.

but it's funny because you outgrew our memories. i am a worn museum, a discarded trunk show, filled with artifacts of past lives we have lived and the empty promises we made. no one wants to visit a dusty museum when there's a new shopping center in town. so i pull my venetian blinds down and make my way downstairs without double checking.

how is it forgetting seemed so easy in my youth? because no matter how many knots i untie from my fingers, no matter how many bows i pull loose from my ragged hands, no matter how many "forget me not's" i have ripped from our dead garden, i have yet to forget a single day with you.

tangled in my bed, you’re holding the bits of my smile that i didn’t even know fell out.
there, in the the gravities of messy sheets and intimate eye contact,
we come upon the part of the story when it reaches a climatic point of dizzying anticipation,
the type of expectation
that whispers sweetly on my skin as if it had the plot of our collision written on it.
here is the precipice of something scary; my tentative hands outstretched—
a coincidental incident; your hands reaching back,
folding me into your body.
everything is the same: the sun still came up to light our faces and
this little town hasn’t changed.
but everything is different, oh god.
the day i sat down in a mostly empty hallway
was the day that i realized i am the worst of unintentional catalysts.
the blush of borrowed luck stains my knuckles and i clench my fists in hopes that it will stay
before i let a safe house like you shelter a storm like me.
i’m so afraid of breaking you.
i’m afraid of my own vulnerabilities.
i’m afraid of letting people into the places where there’s still some wholeness to me. i know—i’m a walking contradiction.
touch and go,
stay and leave,
everything seems to fold.
what is that saying.
“the best laid plans of mice and men, often go awry”?
  never had a plan when it came to things like us but please understand
there are certain fragilities i can’t fathom in me and that i’m afraid of my destruction as i am of my own creations.

      but for now, this is the first chapter in our book.
this is the first day I wake up.
this is where we start.

can try to capture beauty,
try to capture expression--
yet as an artist, never satisfied.

i want to do more than catch your likeness on paper
with pen or graphite, desire more than just a role as an avid watcher and portrayer.

i want to learn the hard planes of your body
the ways they could move in junction with mine,
hands with such strength and virility. there is an urge
to bring those fingers to my mouth, or a lone earlobe.

bite down. sharp inhale. that's music.

i want to know the shapes you make, the way a body looks glistened in hard work, trace the indentions in a spine, be familiar with its knobby structure, kindly measure the quiet strength of muscles, the contours of a figure that is a reflection of its environment.

feeling. quiet feeling.

i want to look and really look, study the proportions of smiles, the simplicity in wrinkles and the path of veins, gentle lines that nature already drew for me. especially observations of lines in your eyes. what is your gaze drawn to. don't tell me, show me.

let me understand a deep look. stare at me. let me stare at you.

i just want to draw on you--
human skin is my canvas,
eyes are inspiration,
raw souls are my
new medium,
and
passion is my paint brush.

can i sketch you, love?

loving him is poetry
and kissing him is art.

i'm used to being the creator
but being created from the affection
in his hands
and sculpted from intimacy
is a feeling like no other--
he doesn't just look, he sees me
every stray brush stroke
every drawn line
every brilliant color,
down to my skeleton,
he strips me of pretense and glows
with acceptance.

i am a bared soul,
battered and bruised,
shaken and scarred,
but even so--

i'm something beautiful in a gaze
like that.

the floorboards always chattered
when we bothered them,
groaning and creaking at the weight of sin,
strained at the pounds of flesh
that gravity tugged with deliberate patience.
but our steps became slower, the passion mundane, and i can almost hear them sigh,
whether in relief or regret, i still don't know.

and the walls were not much quieter, especially when the wind went to kiss the roof the way we would kiss each other--strange familiarity.
etched into your palms and written on old postage stamps
addressed to the letters i never got to send you--déjà vu.
but then again, our fall out felt just as familiar.

reminded briefly that by definition a house can be a synonym for home, but webster never left any clues as to how to keep it that way.
our sheets are twisted and the tired joints of our fingers that held together the seams of memories and intangible bonds between us threaten to let loose as we slept.

tell me. when did we wake up strangers?

If you ever go to war with me
just be aware that I'd
more likely run away
than confront my fears,
my anger,
or fight
{in any case, I would direct it on myself}.
I'm embittered by too much fighting,
I've been a veteran of too much
Tragedy.

So when you start a war,
please do not use bullet-coated words,
or arrows of logic,
or cold stone truths.

Only, look me in the eye,
smother me in love,
**** me with kindness,
And I will surrender
gladly.

a boy who spits out apologies like they’re tied to the roof of his mouth,
a girl who’s apologetic about existing.

a boy with eyes as reflective as sea spray
a girl who always fantasized about drowning in the ocean.

a boy that has hands that look like chiseled marble
a girl that’s used to being carved by other people.

a boy, struck with the thoughts that makes him unaware he’s art
a girl, who’s seen the greatest works in European museums, seen the crowns of kings, blood in the bathtub, lovers leave without grace, struck with the knowledge she has never seen a masterpiece like him.

-lying on a bed with satin sheets and stacks of cash

-pastel pink lingerie and a matching pistol to go with it

-black chokers with pearl earrings

-crystal chandeliers to break

-making your girl ******

I AM SCREAMING INSIDE AND I SWEAR IT'S ALL I CAN DO. HOW DO I SAY I LOVE YOU? HOW DO I TELL YOU I WOULD CAPTURE THE MOON AND BRING IT BACK TO YOUR BEDROOM JUST TO SEE IT REFLECT YOUR LIGHT? HOW MANY WAYS CAN I SAY THAT YOU BREATHE LIFE INTO ME?

I AM AN EMPTY HUSK WAITING TO BE FILLED BY THE MOTIONS IN YOUR LIPS AND THE WAY YOU SAY MY NAME IN SOFT TONES. I AM NOTHING BUT A VESSEL FOR CREATIVITY WHICH YOU POUR YOUR SOUL INTO. YOU'RE JUST AS MUCH AS ART AS YOU ARE AN ARTIST AND I CAN ONLY TRY TO MATCH SOMETHING NEAR PERFECT.

HOW CAN I EXPRESS HOW MUCH THIS MEANS TO ME? HOW DO I PAINT THE STARS TO MATCH YOUR BRILLIANCE?  HOW DO I DRAW THE AFFECTION BETWEEN A BLANKET OF NIGHT AND YOUR SKIN? HOW DO I SKETCH THE SUN WHEN I'M BLINDED BY YOU?

IS THERE ANY WAY TO SHOW YOU HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU?

Your eyes remind me of copper pennies I wished on and my green grass youth.
Your hands remind me of all things i let go but never wanted to.
Your chest reminds me of a canvas, half finished, ready for my hands.
Your lips remind me of stolen kisses and illicit library touches.

But mostly you remind me of what it feels like to have a home.

I don't have the time to criticize you,
I'm too busy improving myself.