I think about calling you

when I’m alone Friday nights,

I imagine you all alone too.

You’re probably watching action movies

and eating frozen dinners.

I think about all the things I would say like,

I’m sorry,

or I was wrong,

and would you like to **** me,

or can I have my record player back at least?


P.S. Have you seen my pea coat?

1.
A study has proven
that love affects the brain
like a drug addiction,
and addiction is a disease.

Love is a disease,
that explains so much!
The not acting like oneself,
the delusions,
the spending full days in bed,
the forgetfulness,
the appetite loss,
the aches

Oooh, the aches!

2.
Our hearts are vagabonds,
we try to trap them in tiny rooms
and lock the doors;
like kidnappers,
we get sad when they ask to leave.

How ******* creepy of us.

3.
Sometimes I treat love as a form of currency,
and I have always been bad with finances.
I always seem to spend it all in one place
without a thought of who is truly
worthy of my investment.

4.
A friend of mine once told me that
the minute you meet someone
you know the reason why
you will leave them one day.  
When you're high
you don't usually think of how awful
it will be to be sober/alone,
and if you ever do
you just try to get more ****** up,
and pretend that tomorrow will never come.

Bread, avoacado,
bacon, lettuce, tomato.
Turkey, and the bread again.

1.
I made my way through thin, cigarette trees
as I searched for, and simultaneously, lost myself.
The foliage coated the ground in different shades of gold,
soft earth's natural armour against my violent feet.

2.
I whispered like smoke, from some conscious place,
"where are you,

                       where are you?"

3.
I found the moon in wavering waters,
resembling a pale dinner plate.
The stars, its companions,
the table on which it was set.

4.
I looked for recognition in the eyes of my reflection,
the face was that of another woman.
One that did not flinch like an exposed nerve;
One that knew she was more like a grains of sand at her feet,
than the gravity around her.

I folded my tired self into her stillness,
knowing that I controlled nothing, and
finally rested.

I.
I remember being a child,
sitting in sunday mass,
taking in the the bright
stained glass blues and the reds.

The sunlight would leak through the cracks
drowning my small hands
in color and warmth…

Color and warmth;
That might be the best way
to describe you

II.
I have to remind myself
that staring at you is like
staring directly at the sun,
eventually, I'm going to go blind,
whether it be with love
or complete and utter inadequacy,

I can't help but prepare myself
for what I will lose
at the foot of your charm.

III.
You might not now it yet,
because things always
come easily to people like you.
But you will realize soon
that I can't give you anything
that you can't get from anyone else,
without half the battle.

I don't blame you if you go.

There is something so beautiful about the human spirit,
let it not be denied.
Our lives, full of giant disappointments
wars, and fears but we continue moving forward
SOLEY for those rare and short lived moments of happiness.

I find that to be incredibly empowering and comforting.

We had spent two days in bed,
   talking,
             laughing,
                          touching.
You said something along the lines of,
"I wonder if we're even still alive?"

When we finally left your room
the sun came pouring in
through your kitchen window;
It drenched our skin
forming silhouettes on the flat surfaces.  

Our shadows stood side by side,
I smiled and said,
"you are only as real as I am, my dear."

I guess that nothing else really does matters.

See everyone I know is hurt, a little crazy and tired
but we smile like drunken fools
ignoring the voice inside that's begging us to scream

days they go by so fast
and we do not do the things we feel inside we should
We live a life based on hate because of laziness or comfort
We work the jobs we hate, we talk to the people we hate,
we live in the small rooms we hate

we sit like trees in one spot
with our roots planted so deep
we know we could never move

We owe ourselves travel, music, art,
we owe ourselves a fist in the air, kicking and screaming revolution
because we will not go down as a the sleepy generation
It's plain and it's simple
we are vital and we owe ourselves not to be the walking dead

I.
My memory of you plays like an old film
I know it word for word, and scene for scene:

YOU* fall sleep on my shoulder, and
I whisper something
into your tousled brown hair
in hopes of instilling these 3 little words
and this feeling
into your subconscious being

I and LOVE and YOU.

rewind, replay, over and over and over..

II.                          
I yearn
         to be
           that close
                to *anyone again.

III.
There are days like today
when I remember that  
YOU are still breathing,
and someone knows YOU better
and holds YOU closer
than I ever did
or could ever again…
                  and I begin to understand
      why good men go mad,
           write poetry,
                 smoke cigarettes
         and drink too much.

When the waves peaked
the sunlight broke
through their belly,
filling the undertow
with stained glass,
blues, and greens.
At the foot of
something holy,
you felt like a child.
If you still
spoke to a God
you would have
done it then.
Instead, you scribbled
short prose
onto wrinkled
receipt paper,
released them
into the ebb.
You thought,
this sadness,
like the ocean,
belongs to all of us now.

When I allow myself to think of
the first mornings we spent together,
I think about how you kissed my shoulder
with sleep still in your eyes;

I remember watching the the city blocks
whimsically turn to fields
and back to blocks again
from the train window,
on my way home.
The train rides were never
a clear picture
as much as they were a feeling,
as thoughts of you consumed me.

I thought about your small,
hot apartment,
the grand weight of our wallets,
empty.
The exaggerated love/lust
as our bellies swished,
full with cheap *****.

Contrary to how it sounds,
this is not a love letter
as much as it is a lament for a person
that once meant everything,
and now is another stranger
on crowded city sidewalk.

I no longer yearn to find you
in some corner of the world,
with arms that have again learned  
how to hold me,
no, this is not a love letter.

I just want to think of you sometimes
and hold on to the parts of you
that already felt like they were mine.

Once again,
I try to remember your scent;
there is no use,
it’s already gone.

Chalk stained clothes and hands like children,
you were never a stranger to me once.

Solar system, city lights,
lives that go as fast as subway cars.

This is not that kind of ride

Assasining down the avenue in Brooklyn,
Comedy in record shops.

Elliot Smith's XO is still the best

Make me dinner again,
I'll drink your Canadian wine.

Smoking on fire escapes...Ironic or appropriate?

You, Mr. made staying in one place a little more difficult than it was before.

Now I am hanging like a swinging pendulum between two cities.

My brain calls for familiarity,
My heart calls to feel more alive.

as I sky watch a sea of glaciers
from and airplane over you
all I know for sure is that I left a piece of me laying in Your bed,

Below melting record players and ***** skylines

It was late June in New York,
humidity was at about 98 percent
and random rain storms
left my hair and face
in a state of disaster.

I looked like my mother
wearing curly hair and defeat
like it was summer's hottest trend.

Andrew said something about
us Californian kids being *******.
My lungs were too heavy to fight back.

"Just 10 more blocks,"
he promised,
as if that was supposed
to comfort me.

When we finally made it to his building
we walked up 7 flights of stairs.
Each floor served as a rest stop
where I would sit and make quiet snide
comments like,
"It's illegal to have a building
larger than 3 stories
without an elevator in California."

We reached his floor, the 7th heaven,
I threw myself on his air mattress
and he turned on the window a/c unit.

I slept until nightfall,
when I awoke
he had prepared dinner
and opened a bottle of Canadian wine.
Bob Dylan's The Freewheelin' spinning on
the record player.
(Andrew would later gift me that record as a parting gift.
And I would later listen to it
every time I thought of him
or New york;
It's still in heavy rotation.)

After dinner we climbed up the fire escape
to go smoke joints on the rooftop.
Andrew asked me how New York
was different from California.
I pointed out that you can't
see the stars in New York
but told him that the skyscrapers
that painted the ***** skyline
were surprisingly just as beautiful.

He smiled to let me know that
there was hope for this suburban girl yet.

It was late November in Los Angeles,
back when it still used to rain.
In that old apartment in which everything felt
filtered yellow, like coffee stained teeth.
The walls, like you, were too thin;
at times I could hear your neighbor crying.

We used to drink, and head up to the rooftop,
where we would smoke too many cigarettes
and loudly declare our love.
Our aesthetic was broke and romantic.
Drunkenly admiring one another like
we admired the city
by romanticizing it's flawed demeanor.

"...don't you remember me babe,
I remember you quite well..."
I sang to you while I ran my cold fingers
through your soft waves.
You hated Dylan but joked
that I nailed it, and
began warm my hands with your breath.

When I was younger I believed
whole heartedly I was worthy and
deserving of love,
and these days I just seem to  
take what I can get.

I keep starting tiny fires
to keep me warm
if only momentarily,
they only leave me colder
when they burn out

sometimes when I'm lonely
I like to glamorize past
failed relationships and
imagine that
that they loved me better,
or I them.

I.
That stone is mine,
please do not touch it
I've been giving it love for so long.
I would hate for anyone else
to finally get its reaction

II.
I put my life on hold
just to be its home:
my arms the walls
my knees genuflecting its thrown  

...and the ceiling,
my crooked and aching neck bone.

III.
That stone is mine,
let me wipe off its dirt
So it could open its eyes
and see how much this hurts.
That stone is mine,
let belong to me,
I wanted to show it that
not everybody will leave.

IV.
And now, I dare not ask it
why it can not love me
because knowing
that it actually doesn't
would mean
I would have to set it free.

V.
That stone is mine,
I'll carry it by myself
because it can't be heavier
than what it weighs to be alone.

Today, I made my way through the hallway,
taking the frames down,
wrapping them in old newspaper,
filling the holes they left with putty;
leaving the walls, white and bare.
Once again, erasing every trace of myself.

I walked from room to room, slowly and quietly
like a ghost without matter
trying to cling to things it can not hold.
I took breaks often, sat on the couch,
watched the grass sway through my living room window,
and wrote three awful poems.

I looked around at all my furniture,
realized how most was scratched and damaged
from being forced through so many doors…
I’m sure there’s a metaphor there,
but I’m not going to bother.

Elliott reads aloud from some adventure book, I take over when his eyes are tired.
Luna is in the bath again, she’s a mermaid this week.
Jeremy works from home, his eyes dart back and forth, across computer screens.
If you weren’t watching the news, one could mistaken this merely as reverence for the mundane.
I turn off the news, and feel guilty for wanting to look away, I turn it back on again.
I did nothing to deserve the safety of my home, with the people I love.
I am reminded of the day the second Iraq war started,
we watched from our couch.
Black and white images of falling bombs flooding our screens,
our youngest brother weeping in my mother’s chest.
We all held him and assured him that it was happening somewhere far away,
that it was happening in someone else’s house, not our own.
I wanted to cry then, but I thought I was too old,
Sometimes I want to cry now, but I’m even older.
The neighbor’s dog howls all day long.
The kids run, laughing maniacally, from living-room,
to bedroom, and back again.
They are unencumbered by the chaos that remains unseen/unfelt in our home
I am grateful for that.

You forgetting me, me forgetting you
such a quiet disease

it gets worse with time

soon you nor I will feel
the feeling of loss when you think about
kissing, touching or making love

If we're lucky we will live on in each other
in a form of nostalgia
Like the feeling you get when you remember
something that used to seem so simple or innocent in your childhood

but at worst we wont remember or pretend not to remember at all

We'll go on with our beautiful lives
Charming this world, one boy, one girl at a time.

God, it is so hard to believe we were once so perfect.
Life is hard and we just kind of get by
I guess it takes it's toll on us.

My God, what a ******* gaping hole
sits inside of me today.
It eats at my sanity and
I'd like nothing more than
to fill it with *****,
and Bob Dylan's The Freewheelin' on vinyl.

When you're this alone no one calls
and if they do it's just the bill collectors
and they only want what you can't give,
much like everybody else.

On a Summer night in possibly the sketchiest park in town
With a tall can of cheap beer and two already empty bottles of surprisingly cheaper wine,
We laid in the grass and admired the spinning sky.

We couldn't see the stars but we settled for the moon

I looked over at you and
you knew I was looking but pretended to not notice
you tried your best to look handsome

You are always so handsome

You turned to me and asked, "do you ever write about me in that little black diary you always carry around?"
I laughed out loud and honestly responded "no, not yet."
With a playfully offended or frustrated tone you said "What's a boy gotta do to get into that little black book of yours?!"

it was probably my second or third most favorite night in the history of ever
so here it is, a page in my little black book for you Mr.

We are sitting on the shallow side of an empty pool,
avoiding the remnants of algae water settled in small ponds.
I am wearing a burgundy, baby doll dress, the one I used to wear I was 8.
I say something in slow motion, you laugh like a child;
I forgot how the lines gather softly, around the corners of your eyes
as if you were squinting at the sun.

Your bony knees, like shovels,
bury themselves into your tummy.
Your hands clasped before your heart;

You've taken the shape of a praying child,
while you sleep on the couch.

The glow from the television bounces off
the sharp lines of your face.
blue,
and black, then fully lit,
and dark again.

The host from this infomercial
explains why my life is incomplete,
in three volume notches higher
than anyone should ever speak;  

It chops, dices, and something or the other,
"Satisfaction guaranteed!"

It is the first week of winter
and my limbs have turned to icicles
to prove the calendar right.
I'd like to slither my way under your blanket,
I'd like to tell you that I love you,
but I should not wake you with such
ordinary words.

I tuck my cold hands and inadequate feelings
into my sweater sleeves
and continue watching just about the ******* TV.

Your heart,
it is light and pure and honest...
and mine,
mine is heavy
but unknowingly and oh so sweetly
you help carry the weight

And on Sunday mornings
when you awake in my bed and you smile, yawn, blink,
stretch or even just breath,
I think,

NO, wait,

I know,
I was born just to see the green of your eyes.

Your tiny hands are a compass
not because they point
or because they fit perfectly in mine
but because I will always follow them.

Let me please always be a warm bed,
a piece of peace,
a comfort.
Soft, safe and quiet and still.
Soft like my mother was;
with her hands caressing my skin
she could heal any and all wounds.

In whispers let me sing,
"I want to tell you how much I love you,"
as your lids slowly and softly cover your eyes

Your heart,
it is light and pure and honest...
and mine,
mine is heavy
but unknowingly and oh so sweetly
you help carry the weight

And on Sunday mornings
when you awake in my bed and you smile, yawn, blink,
stretch or even just breath,
I think,

NO, wait,

I know,
I was born just to see the green of your eyes.

Your tiny hands are a compass
not because they point
or because they fit perfectly in mine
but because I will always follow them.

Let me please always be a warm bed,
a piece of peace,
a comfort.
Soft, safe and quiet and still.
Soft like my mother was;
with her hands caressing my skin
she could heal any and all wounds.

In whispers let me sing,
"I want to tell you how much I love you,"
as your lids slowly and softly cover your eyes

I remember that night I slept
in the guest bedroom of your
mother's old house;
your childhood bedroom just across the hallway.

I waited all night for you
to sneak back.
You sat quietly on your bed
romanticizing foggy memories.

Your dad handed me a box of Frosted Flakes
as he said, "they're great!" in a comically deep voice,
accompanied by the swing of a folded arm.

I laughed in that manner in which anyone laughs at dad jokes:
half heartedly, with a lazy smile.

The crunching of sugary flakes filled the room,
much like your morose mood.
I quietly ate a bowl of cereal,
and watched your face drown in a flood of regret.

I asked why you were so quiet
as you walked me to the guest room that night.
You said you had not spoken to your father in 4 years,
and had forgotten how he used to make you laugh.

You kissed my forehead
and headed towards your childhood bedroom.

You thought it would be nice
if I drove home with your sister in law,
after dinner.

I stared out the window of the silver sedan,
the trees engulfed the highway
like  flames of deep forest green.
Not the kind of green that
I recognized in the trees that grew
outside my childhood home.

Being away from you,
even if only for a short moment,
made me feel like a character in the wrong book.
Panic slowly seeped its way into my veins.

I buried myself in my lap.
She asked if I was okay,
I said that I was just tired.

The book on tape playing loudly on the stereo
narrated the rest of our silent drive.

My dear I fear the ocean will swallow my ship whole

…It's only a matter of time now.

I was once its great captain
but now I am merely its captive,
begging to no one to be set free.

I wish I was like you,
I would declare war on the merciless hands of the ocean
and lord knows I would win.

...if I was anything like you. I am not.

Although I know the water will burn
through my letters like fire,
instead of fighting,
I cowardly continue to compose the most beautiful words
that you will never see.

You're the only one that knows
that I am nothing like anyone here

And I know now that loss is the only kind of pain.