If moving your mouth takes too much energy
then telling lies must be exhausting
because you can twist your words
to make yourself heard
but I know that you're lying.
Your voice is grating
against my ears that try to listen
for the truth between your words.
But it's too easy to believe you
and when have I ever had an easy life anyways?
You won't stop,
I won't stop,
so i'm sure we'll keep going and going around in circles
as we destroy anything that we ever had together
if we even had anything at all.
So spiral out of control
because who cares anyway!
Who cares...
Who cares?
Who...

I want to be in the graveyard
together with all the dead
the final frontier crossed
bones all crumbled to dust
colonised by long gone worms
I want to be in the graveyard
communing with the ancestors
who know more of life than the living
and fool no-one with any kind of guile

I want you to put me on your tongue and let me dissolve into you like the tiny white squares that turn those glossy hazel marbles into black holes and intense stares. I want you to kiss me and see negative colored rulers in the corner of your vision and I want you to have trouble making a decision between kissing me and observing me while I'm sitting on your chest and I want you to laugh like you did with your cherry colored lip curled over your childish grin over and over and over again and I want you to forget the conversation topic every time you close your eyes because the world inside of your mind is filled with blinking images that you can't quite explain aloud so you settle for little talks about Rosa Parks and Indian style kisses and how the ocean is the Earth's thing or the complexity of butterfly brains and whether or not they remember their caterpillar memories (they do). Describe to me the first time you saw your favorite color and what developed the affinity for it: yours, a glacier blue toy that resembled the ocean and mine, a lavender Easter dress that twirled when I spun. Tell me about your school crushes when you were four and what you got your clothespin moved to the sad face for and I'll write it all in ink on my knee caps because "God, we're such writers" and you'll check the clock in the gaps and search for tunes or lighters and I'll want time to slow down because the nights spent with you usually seem as though minutes are just a few seconds shy of sixty, which turns the little hand pretty quickly.
I want hours, weeks, decades, to analyze the freckles on your face or the pace at which you move your tongue and precisely how it tastes.
I want you to tell me that your brother would like me and about the mountains in Tennessee and maybe next time I'll try to stay awake, unless you want to listen to the way I breathe so fully when I dream.

When I close my eyes, I want to be able to see what you see.
I want you to keep burying the numb parts of you into the warm parts of me.

I harbour no delusions
except the ones
I am lovingly attached to

Dear Poet,
There is always the come down
when you have been riding clouds
and scooting all around creation.