Her voice is strained.
Her skin is fair.
Her ******* lay on the countertop.
I **** her until my thoughts stop.

She rejects the notion of love for all,
as she leans against my kitchen wall,
with a cigarette and an unbuttoned blouse-
she wants to be homeless in my house.

She keeps me in her necklace's locket,
and I keep her in the wallet in my pocket.
Her toes kiss the linoleum,
she walks like she's made of helium.

She mumbles that I taste like mint chocolate chip,
as she rubs against my hip.
Her breath smells like Malboro Lights,
and I hope she decides to stay the night.

Milky Ways and Vanilla Cakes,
she likes the way my body shakes,
as we lay and eat our troubles away.
Hurried words slow the day.

She asks me about my stretch marks and scars,
and if I've ever been hit by a car.
And I say no, but I've been hit by love before,
and it feels like getting your hand caught in a door.

Hurried smiles and bathroom stalls,
she likes the way my family never calls.
The words escape between her plump lips,
as my hand travels between her hips.

We move until we forget
that the world is moving faster.

here's how it happens
the morning after
you reach into the drawer
where the your t-shirts live
to find it austere
you'll shrug because
you're still drunk
& you can't remember
when last it was
that you had something wet
or how long it's been
since you made the floorboards blush
or why the carpet is upset
who wouldn't be
the contents to the upended ashtray
strewn around the apartment
resemble the aftermath
of the smallest war
to ever take place in norfolk
some midnight thief
must've made off with the lighter
because it isn't in
any of your favorite spots
maybe you chucked it
along with a hundred other things
that make noise when they land
in the neighbors yard
you won't remember putting
the refrigerator's belongings
in the bathtub
or scrawling a buzzard
on the bedroom door
but then again who would
you'll pretend it's spring again
before putting on your winter coat
to go out front with a cigarette
in your mouth
you'll hope for a passing stranger
to *** a light from
or drag yourself to the corner
with couch cushion change
to buy a new lighter
and on your way
you won't bother looking back
this is just another day
on eggshells for no reason
another november
choking on birthday candles
on your way home
you step over beer cans
the kind you fell in love with
and wonder who
had the last laugh last night
or if anyone said a word at all
it might've been another
moment of clarity
it might have been some idiot savant
any adjective that feels like home
anything that keeps you thirsty

I broke down Thursday
And the wind was cracking loud and
beating my spine into an
uncomfortable submission

I broke down
and all the graves were upside-down
letting the maggots see the sunlight
and the wood was damp and splintered

I broke down
and all the rocks became toadstools
and I sat and I knitted a scarf with
all my worries weaved in with the wool

I broke down Thursday
and the car wouldn’t start and my eyelids were
cinder blocks and the colors started leaking
as I realized my battery was dead

Every so often, you get your heart broken. It's a punch to the stomach, a kick to the knees, a stab in the chest.

Sometimes, you meet this person again. Of course you long to be able to look into their eyes and melt into them like you always have. To lie in their arms would be a heaven almost unimaginable because of the current circumstances, yet you desire it. But has anyone considered the actual feeling of stealing small, secretive, loving, glances at them?

It's looking through a sea of asphyxiation - obviously you are deprived of oxygen underwater - and not being able to reach for them. You are the lone diver, and they are the sinking rocks headed for the ocean's abyss. It's disconcerting, painful and uncomfortable.

You're crying. Why are you crying? Oh. It hurts. Obvious. You are shaking so much you thought you would die young. You have your whole funeral planned in your head. Organs play in the background to honor your demise. The tears flow from your face, leaving hot, burning trails as they did, but the pain of it cannot compare to the one in the pit of your stomach. You wonder when the pain will stop. Wondering alone does not help it.

What you would give to stare into their ocean eyes, play with their hair, crush your lips into theirs.

If only falling out of love were as easy as falling into it.

(seastarred)

"She was carrying a book, and the hand-picked flowers she placed on the bed outweighed even the drag of his dying. We believe it's the silence that's fearful, never the words; and yet whenever she stopped reading to turn the page, he would smile. Perhaps, in that stillness he felt his heart stop searching for instructions on how to live."

Jude ****** - Boys Throwing Baseball

And that is the only thing our heart does without understanding why; it searches.
We are too human to love change, something that is as dangerous as anything we could ever willingly let pass us by, and too human to not look for it anyway.
How some things are so much of themselves that they become their own language, like a bright red silk sliding against the shoulders of a woman, how these things are not made for each other, but made for the moments they are intertwined in.
How silence even weighs from the things that never were, taking from the miracles that were one opened mouth away.
And now, as you remember one specific death the most, you desperately search for the life in everything that passes you by, even the things that you know have nothing to offer.
Even the World, in all It's isolation, gives back to us by pushing us away from It.
Even the small things that we decide to keep for ourselves have come a long way to find us.
A cigarette. A person. A rainfall.
All spend their whole lives waiting to be found.

someone asked me today what it's like to be a writer and i can tell you this,
my mind exploded into galaxies and i wondered if they could see the twinkling stars in my eyes.
first, i looked into their eyes and saw a black hole, complete and total darkness. so i answered simple to start out with
"it is often quite hard. but for me, it's a way of life."
they didn't quite get it i could see, and asked another question
"oh, is it hard because you get writer's block sometimes?"
i almost let the meteors fly out of my mouth so they would be hit and crushed with the raw fact that being a writer is much, much more complicated than that.
"well yes, that can happen. and when it does it is a crippling feeling. but, it is much more complicated than that. you see, us writers, we not only feel things, but we absorb things. we let things take us over, and once this happens, our hands start to produce words onto paper that come deep within our soul, heart, and mind."
they looked puzzled, but when i looked into their eyes i could see a faint star that was starting to shine. i smiled at this.
"like... what kinds of things?" they asked,
"oh my, it can be something as complicated as love, life, the universe, darkness, pain. but on the other hand, it can be something as simple as leaves on the trees, the ocean, an apple that you just ate for lunch. and sometimes, it is putting those two things together to create something wonderful." i said as the comets were shooting through my fingertips.
i looked again into their eyes, and i began to see a cluster of stars, and that's when i knew i had them.