Everything in life ends badly, otherwise it would never end.

I want conversation and car rides,
long nights of green eyes.

I want pastries with whipped cream,
text messages that make me kiss the screen.

I want belted Frank Sinatra,
followed by Moonlight Sonata.

I want gifts I can't afford
that you bought when you were bored.

I want to be calmed and collected,
defended and protected.

I want knowledgeable open-minds,
loquacious words to be defined.

I want my hands to be called soft
and looked at more often

I want my neck to be smelled
then my face to be held.

I want impressed parents,
please share your organic carrots.

I want admiring looks
over the top of Ayn Rand's books.

I want a loss of words
over a song that you just heard.

I want minor disputes
over ideas that don't compute.

I want you to continue to listen
when I question your decisions.

I want button-ups and bowties
that make you different from most guys.

I want time to freeze
and for you to always need me.

I want envious stares
from people who shouldn't care.

I want effortless chemistry
to attract me helplessly.

I want tension filled days,
say you want me with a gaze.

I want my back to be a painting so scandalous
you brush your lips up and down the canvas.

I want clean, boring sheets
to be livened with heat

that I provided.

I want you to be excited

when I come around.

I hope you see yourself in the things that I do,
I hope you see my eyes staring back at you.

Don't think for a moment that I didn't put you there,
Don't think for a moment that I don't care.

Because I do.
I do.
I do.
I do.
Words you never said to me, words she always said to you.

I hope one day you hear my name,
And watch my art scream my pain.
I hope you see my story told,
Finally free, your words getting old.

I have written you down, I have moved you through my feet,
I have sung you out loud, and I have saved you a seat.

So please, come and watch my display,
My performance of grief, I am the author of this play.
This dance, this art that holds your name,
I hope that you see you too, because I do the same.

It's Dahlia season.
The bulbs are in full bloom.







It's Dahlia season.
And I still don't have you.

Words are ****.
They make me want to rip a pillow with my teeth
Or marinate in a sensuous heat.
Where you'll be, sitting there.
Waiting to kiss my spine and touch my hair.
Tell me regaling tales of what you think.
Of what is rational or obsolete.
Worlds like Suggestive, Sarcastic.
Forlorn and Bombastic.
Makes my skin melt and heart palpitate.
I will no longer settle for those who are adequate.
I need substance. I need someone (you) to say.
That you're enamored and beg me to stay.
I want that learned passion that only we
could portray.

What I would give for your attention.
I would give a lot.
What I would give to not have to give
for me to be in your thoughts.

What I would give for your affection.
I've given it much thought.
I would return the pencil you gave me
which doesn't happen a lot.

What I would give for you to look my direction
Without you thinking someone else it hot.
What I would give for an emotional connection
that would occur more often than not.

            What I would give to know what to give
                                           because I know your love can't be bought.