There is but one point where everything stands still,
And we can only create it, not find it in the natural world.

I find this fascinating


In a world of industrialization,
Timely schedules,
And 7 billion people,
Nothing ever stops.
Though I try to sit as still as silence,
I **** my breathing momentarily,
I resist the need to blink,
This does nothing.
My heart still beats,
My veins still pump,
And the hormones triggered by my brain will still be released.

The rocks will still shake at the molecular level.
Underneath the ice, the lake is still moving.
And the air, though no wind may be felt, persists higher up still.

Yet there is a joy that comes from watching everything around you,
As you freeze time,
And they continue on.
The river speeds on faster than was noticed before.
The people move quicker along the sidewalk.
The cars accelerate until the stop sign approaches, yet even then their engines still growl with a readiness to pounce.

But I sit here and wonder why more do not stop like me.
Is it cowardice that keeps them in constant motion?
I think it more to be blamed on an unwillingness to care.
Ignorance - there's a reason it's bliss.

Maybe if they did stop, they would start caring more about the river that runs underneath them perpetually.
Creating sanctuaries for infinite numbers of species.
Loving each one equally.
Harmonizing with the trees and flowers.
Caring for the muck and dirt with no where else to go, nothing else to be.

And perhaps caring is scary,
But peoples' lack of care, I find angering.

I enrage over how more people don't care,
And how if we all stopped just one moment each day,
Things would be much different.

There's a point in life where examination and reevaluation is necessary.
When you feel as though you've hit not rock bottom, but the bottom of the rocky depths in below freezing oceanic waters
Where only eels would prefer to thrive.

And this place is when gay movie *** turns you on due to lack of ****** ******* in your own life.

I have reached the ocean's floor and am slowly drowning in a mixture of embarrassment and shame
As I watch my dad's eyebrows raise while I
Too intensely stare at the TV screen.


I understand if you judge, but for a moment just remember that all you ******* have a **** to go home to.
Then give a girl some sympathy.

Until the day I am able to sleep next to you, my hand held in yours softly
Underneath billowy sheets, hidden beneath baby-soft blankets like school children
Your chest, slowly rising and lowering with each breath you
Inhale
Exhale, serves as my head rest, with your hand sweetly, yet safely atop my cheek bone

The steady metronome that resides under your rib cage resonates across the surface area of my skin and rattles the bones of my inner ear

The heat we create draws precipitation out of my pores

I stencil hearts, swirls, circles on your forearm with my freshly painted fingernails as you drift into the realm of dreams
I follow along shortly, all the while sharing my most sincere love for you, which kindles warmth under the comforters

I linger as long as humanly possible, for who would rather dream, than live their dreams
Where sight, sounds and smells create paintings on canvases, capturing memories


Until This day, one can only visualize

Today was a necessity.
I think,

I hope you understand that someday it will all make sense.
I dreamt of the perfect world with children of ours running in a green field with a dachshund along side.
There was picture perfect walls of glass and my library that you discouraged, but cared enough to allow me.
There was the gaming room that I discouraged, but cared enough to allow you.
And each morning breath was an inhalation of your skin, so bare and intimate.
My hair would wrap around your fingers playfully and our legs would hug under blankets from when we still were virgins together, in multiple ways.

Those dreams pass quickly as does the pendulum of the clock.
The seconds quicken as it deceives us into believing this will work.
It was good at what it did, and we fell for it.

There was no time to change my decision, for the better.

Perhaps someday we may walk with our hands joined once more, but until then,

This is absolutely, irrevocably, necessary.

And what did happen,
Mr. McLean?
What happened when the music died?
Did they sing "bye-bye"?
Or perhaps something more tragic took place.
Did they cry?
Did they, themselves, die?
Not a tear shed, not a sound made as she, with grace, spoke her parting words.

For what good is dancing if there be no rhythm?
For what good are instruments if they do not fulfill their purpose?
What will the birds do?
How can we define a beautiful noise, "like sound to my ears"?

I think it wise to overestimate the sanctity of those harmonies we cherish with such intensity.
Practically a religion, we tithe our money for its funding, we congregate to listen together, and we recite its verses akin to a scripture.
Forever remember the day it died, remember it as a fallen war victim, as a martyr.

Only dying for what it knew best,
For what it was, and for what it did in others

Honor her with silence, for singing is no more.
Remember that it died with pride,
Remember that, as it sang its final note, it echoed,

                                     "This'll be the day that I die"

I like when you lean on MY shoulder
Not always the supporter, I enjoy supporting you too
You can cry around me
It's okay to be scared, vulnerable
These shoulders are not just ball-and-socket joints of attachment
They act as tear collectors, and confidence boosters
They're always here, unless for some reason I lose them
But until then, know they are at your disposal
Here whenever need be

The number of stitches in my thigh,
punctures in my wrists,
the number of times you tried to **** me.

The number of paces I creased the carpet
with contemplating
how to escape you.

The number of hours you told me in bed
I'd be sorry after I left you,
naked and stabbing with your voice.

The number of  times I told my friends
your anger was disgusting, scary. The number
of times they told me don't worry.

The number of times you banged on my door,
****** knuckled, how many times I begged
for death, how many nights you barely left me
breathing.

I watch our arms sew together
under gravity's needle.
Our fingers bloom roses
as our blood shines and spins
together on our now single palm.

Mother watches from home
through her crumbling telescope.
She sees us suspended
in half kiss. She waits for impact
of hips, her fingers moist,
slipping off her eyepiece.
She wipes the sweat from her lip.

When I feel her gaze on the soul of my foot
I know she is watching with
cataracts and bifocals.
I am the same age a when I left her
while she cries dust on
her cracking refracting lens.
She can't look away at my stuck body,
rigormortic, frozen and unfocused
in her left eye.

She sits down and dies.
I have just begun.

I found my mother outside in our shed
holding her trowel in May.
We walked to the farmers market
and she told me where vegetables come from.
The morning was spent planting seeds and bulbs
close to her heart, my future siblings.

Mother taught me the painstaking birth
of cabbage and watermelon.
We were impatient in the kitchen
while we stirred soup and noodles,
peaking out the kitchen window.

I started planting trees for distraction.
Mom told me
I would hammock under them in time,  
shade my forehead in leafy kisses,
turn my novel pages with soft breeze.

Father watered the tomatoes to relieve
mother from the neck-breaking June sunlight.
She watched through the doorway.
Each night, with baby monitors wired through
cracked windows, Mom waited to pick
her devotions from stem until they were ready.

In August I saw my grandma smile
in crow’s feet happiness
at life that she held in cupped palms,
covered in placenta dirt.

Venomous
As you poison me
Intoxication at best
Sickiningly sweet
Surprisingly sour
To differentiate between the two is impossible, drugged by your painfully soft

Lips that inject me with these
Salivating neurotoxins
Numbing mind, body, and soul
Penetrating deep layers of

Skin so comfortable as my form molds against yours
Feathery whispers surrounding my ear while

Kissing slowly, silently
In a sublime fashion as darkness forms to daylight, and daylight turns to midnight

Time means nothing here

The plastic lid on the fish tank locked you inside with Death-
A cold, liquid murderer.
You breathed in His saliva through your gills.
It gummed your mouth and jaundiced your eyes.
I watched you suffer through quarter inch glass,
While you, an inmate, wished to die
From poison oxygen on our cherry floor.
I rested a shoe on top of the aquarium lid
To prevent your suicide while we slept.

I dreamt that night of you
dragging me to the bottom of your cell
With your chapped fins and rotting
sucker mouth grasping my shoulder,
Gasping for clean water.
You forced me to inhale
Death's unforgettable stench
As we did you.

You were dead the next morning,
And I never got to tell you sorry.
Instead I shoveled your carcass
Out from the blue gravel
Coated in your corpse.

Love is the kind of thing you read about
Love is the kind of thing you dream about

But to experience...

Help me find words to rationalize the feeling of love


When every kiss holds meaning behind sealed lips
When every hug warms the body like hot chocolate on a snow day
When every smile gathers heat to your cheeks
When every laugh tattoos memories
When every tear beckons death

Electrifying the sensation of touch, from an innocent hand-hold to a loving palm that rests on my cheek, supporting the weight of my head as I fall asleep on your chest to the soothing sound of respiration

That emotion which takes one word to describe, yet can be described in thousands of words

All of which, I feel from you

As I love you, it feels just like breathing
Like riding a bike
Like flying a kite

It's quite impossible to forget how to love you

Simplistic, the act of sharing love between us

Like jigsaw pieces, we found each other in a sea of different
Shapes,
Colors,
and Sizes

We fit perfectly, because we were designed to coexist

In the same space
At the same time

The farmer cuts the corn,
Swear from his brow on the wooden handle.
Before the calf was born
The farmer cut the corn,
His sickle left the fibers torn.
5 AM, his daughter lights a candle
While her father cuts the corn,
A shiver on her brow, hand on the wooden mantle.

I think you should have made me say sorry
Before I had to come to the realization myself.
All the backs rubbed, padded fingers
Bruised in futile comfort
Came from you doing, living you, yourself,
Your normal of
**** it, **** happens.

No, I'm not angry at myself, because
You plant these seeds yourself and let them
Diffuse into your acidic tasting soil,
Dirtied by all of the forgotten questions
And
Dismembered, overcarressed words.
Stuffing filled ******* you shoveled
Over your shoulder,
Back onto the pile.

There's value you tirelessly overlook
In ending a fight,
Finishing a thought,
Having emotions,
Being a human.

It's your well deserved turn now,
You can do it,
   Just inhale
     Languages
     ****** expressions
     Subtitles
     Paraphrases
     Gestures
     Pantomimes
   With fluidity as each atomic being sifts through continuing passages

And go.
   Exhale,
           No, you're doing it wrong.
   Breath.   Out.
    What you feel,
Release,
      Allow me passage inside,

I've only wanted to help all this time.


         I guess we'll just start here.

It's bothersome
To come home and find you nagging
Impatient
And irritated
Waiting to tuck me in

Untying my shoes, you pester and bicker
Bicker and pester
Frustrated, I must remember you were only worried for me

Ascending the stairs, you use the passing lane and beat me to my bedroom
All the while nagging, what you do best

I slip my night clothes on, while you have already made my bed your home
Spending five minutes to find the prime spot and position
You are picky, finicky

The light goes off, and we share love the way we know and are familiar with
My knuckles out, you smudge them with your chilly pink nose
Your arms relaxed, I rest my hand on your belly, patting gently as you hug me back with all four appendages

All angst is forgotten, a routine chain of events

You are my cat
And you are my mother

Don't you find Christmas a little askew in its purpose?
We remember a man who, born on this day, walked the Earth some two thousand years ago
                   By burning pockets with gift giving,
       Decorating a door frame with a $70 wreath which will die in two weeks,
           Stuffing our faces with high fructose desserts and fat filled ham
   Competing for the brightest tree (also going to die in two weeks) and the loudest outside decorations
                                                     ­                 Did we forget the homeless man on the corner who can't even buy a sock?
                                       Who would give anything for that one sock, perhaps even another sock
                   Why is Christmas a competition
                              What happened to Cindy Lou Who, who asked where Christmas was and why she couldn't find it
                                                      I seem to think that Christmas should be much the same as Thanksgiving,
       But I am the only one,
  As we continue to spend thousands of dollars each year's end
                                                             ­   And soil what God intended originally for these twenty four hours
                                            Maybe, just maybe,
                      Spend a little less ******* money on your family,
         And spend a little more time with them
                                      It's all that homeless man could ask for,
                                      Besides that sock

If you saw me
I might be upside down,
Different spectra of vibrations
Pulsing from my goosebumped knees.
I imagine if I sweep my arms back and forth
Across the benthic stretches of our skies
I may feel your structure
In the crease of my thumb.

I reach my hand out to touch you.
Your elbow is somewhere in space,
Bent a certain posture.
It's possibly inverted,
But it could be rigid and reaching for my hair.
I think your forehead may point toward my collarbone,
Protruding like deer antlers.
In your universe my collarbone looks different,
Objects that will never be
metaphoric molds for my words,
But exist in every third line of your poetry
You may or may not write.

In-between our possible distance
There are millions of bodies,
Or just a few.
Neither of these options we can see
Or touch.
We will never know how close our blinks are.
Yet I can feel my breath rush down my chin,
Knowing if we ever found each other
Your exhale would twist into mine.

Come Gaze with me
At the stars that shine so bright
At the galaxies and nebulas
Hold my hand as we view the heavens
As we find ourselves among space

You peek into my eyes, and look at the picture of the sky that twinkles in my pupils, the reflection of pure beauty

I see a shooting star
It is so beautiful, so fragile, in a fraction of a second it is gone
I try to point it out to you, but still you stare into my eyes
You tell me nothing is more beautiful than them, there is no point in looking away, it would only bring sadness upon you

I kiss your lips, your cheek, your jaw bone, drag my lips across the contours of your neck

The sky erupts with beauty
It is both white and color filled at the same time
It is neither night or day as our tongues explore the inside of each others cheeks

No words could come within miles of describing this moment


Come gaze with me
At the stars that shine so bright
We will embrace and watch the sky explode in shooting stars
I will hold your hand as we view the heavens
And beyond

It chills the marrow of my bones,
Rattles my empty chest with a whooping gasp.
We live in a mindset clouded by falsification, washed over by an image of perfection.
With their blinders on, the sheep will follow forever-Their shepherds will lead until there's nothing left to lead to.

There will come a day when the birds no longer sing, and their throats will no longer resonate with the comfort we cling to tightly.
I fear for the world, the Earth. I hear its cry and try to help.
But I am only one person.
I fear for the children and lovers, blinded by ignorance

There will come a time where forests may smolder to nothing, and the leaves will no longer rustle in the wind.
I long for a renewal, a second chance.
I may never live to see one,
Our planet spent to nothing more than a piece of astrological garbage

There will come a time when everything will go to nothing,
There will come a day when everyone will finally see what we've done,
And that day will be one day too late

How could you love yourself that night
When garbage dumpsters lined with arsenic created fragments of lifeless skin,
As it held her in place while you shoved all your self-worth inside something so personal,
As each damaging push And release roared with a decaying boom that awakened sleepers from the metallic snare drum rolls,
As you crushed her ribs and memories that she clutched in her balled palms.
Her flower petal eyelashes wilted with tears,
Her fingers whitening from aching pain and struggles not quite powerful enough.
Her neck screaming as she bangs her head on the moldy sheet metal for distraction.
Her mouth sock-stuffed and muffled,
Saliva soaked and injected with the shrieks you refused to hear,
Because you pretend this is pleasant,
This was begged for.

When the heart strings turned to cage bars locking you deeper inside
Self achievement was smeared inside her like hot tar, tainting what forever was
Supposed to be hers.
You tossed her to malicious canines, while she folded over herself into a puddle of weak vertebrate.
So next time I see someone slouching,
I'll recognize it as your slimy mark left in a spinal cord-severing chop,
An inhuman knot tied shorter than the original nervous length,
And a marionette stance that walks in a crooked meter.
When I see a sweater, tattered and ragged with compostal decay
Lying shameful on the cold asphalt
With a print of moisture underneath
Too precisely shaped as a woman kneeling in her own agony,
I'll remember what I saw that evening and walked by
Too quickly to notice.

Next time my index finger will already be on the 9,
My thumb impatiently on the 1.

These diverging opportunities
Continue to split down the universe's seam,
as we propel ourselves in opposite directions.
Our affectionate thread can no longer pace itself with our ******* anguish,
the ravaging conflict.

My hands,
holding the repelling sides of our worlds together,
attempting to sew ourselves again,
grow weak from the increasing tension.
My muscles bend and flutter under my trauma,
the horror I feel with one picture,
the tears I cry as I sleep,
from the dreams of a patched world,
a needle unable to sustain my love for you,
and your love for me.

The silver threads that hang from his scalp drape gently onto the crisp outline of his neckline

Dried, frail lips, etched on by ancient carving tools across the rickety bones that make up his jawline

And hands, constructed so beautifully

A working man's hands, wear-and-tear evident through scars and gashes

Yet his mind, so complete in every aspect
Able to solve all problems, able to mend all sadness with powerful phrases full of wisdom
Eons it takes to gain this wisdom, yet minutes it takes to share

Living in a state of confusion
Is quite the same as a nightmare

Standing in a place misunderstood, that cannot be understood.
People that have no faces, faces that have no meaning
Buildings that cannot be remembered, memories wishing to be forgotten

A cloud that festers, growing and bulging like an ugly cyst



... I just wish I could understand again
Take the darkness away and reveal the lightness I once knew

I wish that God would whisper to his disciples
The words no one desires to believe.
I wish that God would **** his followers pretending to embody his words in gravitating accuracy, that
They are preparing for the end when really they're creating it.
The apocalypse is now,
In production as we speak,
Taking its form in floods,
Extinctions,
Heat waves,
And toxic wastelands.

Too late has man found solutions for irreversible problems.
And too long has man found comfort behind curtains and blinds,
Sheltered from the singeing reality
That is what Revelation preached.
The apocalypse is now,
And we hold the torches
Scorching the grass blades knotted through our toes.
We hold the torches and feel the power wielded in our palms,
Realizing the undeniable capacity of energy in the burning branches in our hands.
But humans love fire,
And that remains constant.

I wish to be remembered as wise beyond my age
I wish to transfer a legacy of laughter and happiness
I wish to keep within my friends the originality I held in myself

That originality,
In a 5'1" woman it towers over McKinleys and Everests alike
It kept me from conformance
It shielded me from mainstream virtues

If nothing else, keep alive my ability to stand out
Through my laughter
Through my love
But keep in mind these things within yourself
For what be the point of my existence if I could not progress the world into a better state

As I dive into an abyss
And leave my kin
My soul missing its housing
And my fingers lose their feeling
My mind loses meaning
But my body never leaving

Just remember that as I lay dying
I wish only for my song to carry
As it resonates in liquid minds of children

As I lay dying
Carry on my verse
And recite the prose of my wisdom
For the sponges

When you held my hands in your lap
your stare tattoed eyelashes on my wrists,
they're still bleeding.

You used inexpensive words to tell me
you never wanted to make me cry again,
I'm still sobbing.

My soft-petaled wings faded and crushed
as your last kiss fell from your lips to my cheek,
I'm still wilting.

For three months I held up my green-bean spine
with a meter stick, a lifeless statue of sprouting stem,
I'm still dying.

When I called you I know my hair slipped through
the phone speaker, and you could smell my skin,
You're still yearning.

But it's been three years now, and you no longer
care for teenage laughs and the discovery
of thigh and shoulder kisses,

Yet I'm still writing about
what a beautiful thing to have loved,
what a terrible thing to have said goodbye.

Within our 400 mile distance
There's a point where our distinct
Gravities will overlap,
Where our eyelids will refuse to
close until they can face each other
In rest.

All my laughs, every goodnight
And goodbye only increase
Your mass.
I feel your weight tug
On my brain stem stronger
Each day. You loop
My string around your finger
Once at night, once in morning.

Each twist draws me closer
To your jaw,
Wrapped in your arms
Under sheets of snow.

She cries because it's raining
The makeup trickles down her irrational face,
And she wonders when the sun will come.
I tell her truthfully, when it's ready, though she rejects my input.
She is washing away down into the sewer with every breath,
The place she wants to belong,
With the only things that make sense to her: dead things.
Psychotically, the pistol in her pocket now rests in her palm with its most dangerous point aimed at the middle of my forehead.
And she asks me again when the sun will come,
But I give no response,
Because nothing I say will change her motive.
And she shoots me.

I'd like to know if I am real.
Everything is too perfect to endure reality,
Pristine processes in a scuffed world.
Just enough oxygen for sustainability, connecting anatomic creations in perfect harmony.
Just the right gravity for breathing capabilities but enough to keep us grounded,
Just the perfect set of genes, containing electrons to keep cells clamped in geometric patterning.
Just the right degree of an axis to create all elements of nature, to nurture a 45th parallel with such virginity.
Just enough atmosphere to keep our fingers grasping, to stir vibration between atomic beings.
Just enough death to keep the cycle continuing.
Just barely.
But no one cares.

I'd like to know where we are going.
Not kinesthetically, no, but where we are going.
I think the world may turn backwards sometimes, and I'd like to know if that's true,
If it's ever going to happen,
And the circumstances, the consequences.
I'd like to know the circumference of Earth and compare it to the universe,
And remind myself of just how insignificant I am, we are, even all together.
But no one cares

I'd just like to know the answers to these questions seldom pondered.
I'd like to know the reason for everything.
Is it too much to ask why I am here, how I exist and what made me throb in those first moments of conception?
Do I dare wonder how my cells gathered courage enough to grow?
Do I dare guess how my parents earned a blessing so intimate?
I'd like to think my poems can seep into catatonic veins and make mountains with my words,
Is it too bizarre to believe the world may someday stop turning,
That it may reverse, and all of time will become corroded with processed steel and carbonated flesh?


I suppose I understand the methods of this flock.
I suppose I will follow as countless did before me.
"For the better", they bleat in monotonous drilling, chipping and cracking my weakened femurs,
And no longer can I continue like this.
I give in.
"I can't, you can't make me", I bleat, I cry so loud.
The trees plug their ears and watch each lifeless body
March over mine into the nuclear filled wasteland
And drink from its waters,
And the monster's tentacles slither around each sheep belly and drags them
In silent procession.
The lake ***** them dry and the radiation singes their woolen coats.
"For the better", they bleat
As the world falls down around me
And I am trapped with glass knocking me unconscious as it falls from San Diego to Chicago,
From Singapore to Moscow.
"For the better", I bleat, as I remember all the poems that smoldered to ashes before I put them on paper.

So I find my answer, too late to share with the others,
That yes, the world now halts its sluggish canter,
And the crunching of rock shudders beneath me,
And yes, the winds reverse, and we are moving backwards in a direction that never mattered to anyone other than me.
"For the better", I bleat, as the peak of the Chrysler building free-falls and splits my mind in two.
And all those prose, wandering and wispy,
Forever grow weight and sink into soil.

My tree trunks tremble in the rickety winds
When your bird-like tongue,
Dry and writhing,
Whispers Shakespearean love into my stems,
Feeding me photysynthetically.
I lean into your fuzz embroidered wings,
Pillowing my leaves and supporting my
Cumbersome mass.

Our love is as natural as the grass plains in Oklahoma pre-Dust Bowl,
The slopes of the snowcapped Rockies,
Or the fragile tide pools of Southern California.

I am your sycamore, your willow that rarely weeps.
You save me from the stagnant waters of revolving seasons,
And grace me with a fascinating new level of life.

On Mars there is a merry-go-round,
Carnival music cast into ether to scatter through the asteroid belt.

There are probably fireworks on Neptune
Set to the solar system’s intergalactic anthem.

Several stars away, a few light year blinks,
A thoughtful ear might hear a car crash, the dislocation of a shoulder.

Hubble, aging in ancient expanse, no doubt squints.
She struggles to focus, senile metal heaving in its last orbits.

What does the sound of the border between Space
And Earth feel like? The inside of a vacuum cleaner? A harp string vibration?

The belly of the Sun churns from the low gurgle
Of gas station sandwiches. This is why he is stationary.

We crave the experience of watching a supernova
And listening years later, anticipating rising crest and falling trough.

Eons in our future, we’ll hear the coo of the waking universe, muffled
From primordial placenta, slapped to breathing by the biggest question.

It was innocent.
The two of us, naked together, breathing each others oxygen
Close enough to smell the ****** aroma of your sweat and natural scent
Close enough to touch lips so tenderly, close enough to interlace our tongues inside my mouth

It was special.
Young love, together we shared this feeling so few comprehend
We proudly say we know what love is, we proudly say we shared true love

It was quiet.
Skin touching skin, rubbing gently like fine grit sand paper
Soft, rushed breathing passing by my ear

It was perfect.
In every sense of the word, it was perfect.

It was beautiful.

Dad’s ocean is washing away
The frame of our house.
I am on the second floor,
Riding the waters of Mother’s tears.
I plug my ears with my fingers
And hold my breath;
I still feel the ebb and flow of his rage.
The hypothermic water winds
Around my toes like nooses.

My body is a life vest
Floating on top of a row boat bed.
Its boards are rotten and creaking
Under my adult weight.
Our house is a fish tank. Everyone is staring
through our windows with bulbous eyes as
Rivers flow from our pains of glass.

Chicago,

Your energy rumbles up my knees and out my esophagus.
I speak your language with each vibration,
And while others find it annoyance purely,
I treat it tenderly and loop it through each tooth,
Threading the words you teach me.
While your speech turns to sentences I come to understand your purpose, why we are here
On this gravity defying sidewalk.

I feel your kinesthetics with every breath I take,
Whooping back out cigarette tar and gasoline vapor.
The river, long and un-obstructive, flows down to the base
Of the brain stem which you funnel your strength and wisdom through.
The geese tickling your nerve endings in the water
Never realized this liquid is no longer their home,
It was taken hostage a century before.

This city,
With its echoing winds and cloud scraping apartments
Understands me.
A symbiotic sphere.
It sees the future while others greedily pull the veil over their faces,
But He is unwilling to accept the imaginary.
Someday the stars will no longer glisten,
While every building, innocent and newly ******,
Loses the fluttering heartbeat it once composed.
The windows will project no faces,
Only empty chairs and tables
Collecting dust and milky residue of the putridity its children once carried in lungs.

I never liked it when you called me Honey.
It dropped each letter and froze my throat shut.
It shallowed my breathing,
cut off my fluttering circulation,
swelled my eyes closed.
It propelled my heartbeat,
calloused my skin,
inverted my fingernails.
My vision bled,
you laughed at this,
and through my head rang your shrill cackles
as giant gongs infesting all sound.
You thought it was silly,
my transformation,
my drunken anger,
when you flashed your canines at me,
you Monster.
Only the most wicked can kindle their hatred into someone else.
Only the most cancerous find humor in other's tears.

Leaves in trees sing sweet and sharp breeze,
Iced dew on trilliums with spring freeze.
Hushed omens of rooted deer femurs,
Rushed growth of leeks and small rivers.
Hiss of cricket and cracked, damaged
Branches that creek above in suspension,
Poised avalanches.
Moisture wicked off budding ferns down
Stems like ballpoint, quill pen turns.
Blankets of moss overtop cedar gently padded
Our toes between sock and polyester.
The smack of coyote howl hacked
Like woodpecker thwack through antlers and
Tree trunks tracked by my own ears,
And I twist each string of melody into my
Cataloged years, so I never forget the swift lifting
Spell of days when red robin throats first swelled.

If someone tells you I love you,
Run them through triathlons while holding your hand.
Make them listen with their eyes closed to your singing voice,
When they tell you they love it watch for the formation of sweat beads at the edge of their hair line.
Have them catch you off a twenty story building
And then drive you to the hospital.
Wait in the ER for five hours without a cell phone to play games on,
Make sure they kiss your fingers while you cry in agony.
Starve with them for five days
While you survive off of nothing but salty tears and tender knee hugs.
Watch your favorite movie with them fifty times in thirty days.
Go out to your favorite restaurant five times in one week,
And most importantly,
Loop your favorite album on replay for 78 hours.
Buy five dogs and walk them through miles and kilometers of bike trails.
Have every single argument possible
Until you run out of things to disagree on,
Then bring every issue up again the next morning.
Get drunk together and say every possible ****** up thing that you don't mean.
File for a mortgage.
Agree on how many kids you both want.
Go through the loss of a family member together,
And convert to separate religions.

But most of all, make sure they really mean it.

This is the 492nd love letter I've written you this year,
the 492nd that will never be mailed.

Do you remember when love was spread
like salt on half-assed, ill seasoned chicken soup?
Those letters stopped at #341.
Now these prose are written to not one loved by,
but one in receival of pointless and misguided love.

#136 was the letter of our nights of dreaming,
in cloudless harmony,
how our minds braided from miles apart.

#302 was of the day we became closer,
now only a 2-minute car ride apart,
no longer were our spines purging so rubber-band-like.
We were closer.
Our love swelled to string our hearts tighter.

And maybe that's why #341 happened.
No longer a necessity to work for love,
for teenage passion,
only a ritual of Monday night homework after Drama,
and denial of Do you want to tonight?
Shooed by a My parents...

Should #327 have been about our love being too easy to come by?
Because I couldn't provide what you didn't even chance at.