I think about you. A lot.
But that's not to say I want to return to your side
I get weak, I admit, and my subconscious calls out your name
But the sight of you before me brings memories along with it
And nostalgia is suppressed by haunting recollections of you

I do replay our conversations in my head
And smile still to the loveless banter we shared
But I can't picture that future we talked about in detail
I never could envision it actually

I remember our "perfect children"
But they have never come to me in times of need
Like those I have seen since we parted
Nor have I daydreamed to see their faces
Or been able to mesh our faces in mere assumption

- I guess imagination does exist
somewhere in my mind
Because the future you promised me is nothing more than a thought.

"you don speek my languish"

"I'm learning. Learning takes time so leave it to me."

"I'll wait anoth ur 150 yeers, if you are not fluid it is good see yeah."

"'Goodbye.' You don't speak my language either."

"you don speek my languish."

waiting politely, Tinkerbell glow fading curiously into the overheat overwhelm of city neon and street lights, Soul's glazed eyes of hypnotic intuition begin to close.

"150 yeers. meet me everywhere."

Fading into a geometrically dark centre (dark as in far too bright, similar to when one stares incessantly at anything at all and the peripheral begins to fade into whatever greater colour scheme the senses have meshed into a Rorschach blot you've been asked to interpret), Soul fleets a smile (you feel Soul's smile, as Soul has no real face- Soul has all faces and hence none).

"Goodbye. You will find me when you find yourself."

"You do speak my language."

"I do." Soul whispered back, adding--

"It is you who doesn't."

I spent years trying to be
one of the boys because i
couldn't be one of the girls
that boys like or girls liked

so now I've learned to be
whatever boys like, whatever
men like I'm not sure. so I search
for those perfect traits that align
with mine and they're never in
the same place, all in different
bodies.  And however petty
it may seem, i'm worried

that no one else will ever like
me for me.

I'm usually waiting. work-wait,
wallet-wait, wait for the waiter
(waitress), all wretch, no *****,
waiting. waiting for the moment
I can finally look around and say--

'ah, there it is.

always in my back pocket

jabbing my ****.'

I sit alone
Conjuring up metaphors with a sleepy mind
as absinthe, poured into my glass
reminds me of passion
all heat and
bittersweet
it tempts me just the same

I wait for the sugar to dissolve
the same way
I wait for love
Believing it will be sweeter
and like love
it only distorts my thoughts
blurs my vision
making my tongue thick
But I have no use for words right now

The floor
         begins
               to sink

I feel self-conscience
smoking my cigarette
vulnerable
Aware of the men in the room
How their eyes follow intently
the lines of my hand to mouth gestures
Their appetites wetted  
the way my lips
w r a p and f o r m
Some obscene whisper
Full and round
I wonder if they've guessed
my lipstick and ******* are the same
perfect shade of pink
I blow the smoke out
and away
They smile

Dark
hungry thoughts
join the fog around my head

The floor
        is falling
             further

A man stands next to me
Insisting his attentions
Pushing his body against my arm
I look up at him and smile
I know he will not force me to think clearly
He pretends we've met before
and I

imagine

I am the ice in his whiskey
Melting slowly

Waiting
to be absorbed
against his lips
between his teeth
he will bite and crush me
pushing me
down
inside of him
He wouldn't even taste me
A cool burn then
nothing

The
    floor
       is far
             away

in a candlelit forest
I sketch the faces
of ancient trees...
my new notebook
already haunted