I feel like your lips,
and everything beneath them,
belong to me.

I feel like your fingers,
and I want to feel your fingers,
on my lips,
and everything underneath the sheets.

I want to smell like warm tea,
and taste like smooth cream,
and I want you to open my eyes
to your lucid dream.

If you want to spend your time under trees,
I get it,
and if you don't want to waste your time in the same ways,
I get it.
But if you want to hold me,
and mumble ***** secrets that I don't understand to my shoulder,
or smile so that I can feel it on my lips,
then I don't.

We can eat the same food,
and inhale the same breath,
but no matter what happens at night,
it wont matter in the morning.

I tell her
about my first time smoking *** in a stranger’s rundown apartment, somewhere between Paris and Amsterdam
about growing up in the Whiskey Flats next to strip clubs, gun shops, liquor stores, and lots of cows
about swimming naked in the south of France, speaking to strangers in a tongue with which I was not familiar.
about using a Japanese toilet; drunk at a karaoke bar
about getting my hair cut by random French men in random French hostels

I tell her my experiences,
but I cannot remember the giggles of intoxication,
the smell of the cows, the chill of the water,
or the words that fell from my lips.

She may envy my life,
but I envy the way she lives

So tell me, Emily
how you smile in the morning and say words like “sunshine”
tell me what the salt water tasted like on a beach in South Africa
tell me about the beauty of forgiveness, the bitterness of your tears, the curls in your hair, the music in your soul
tell me about love
tell me what it’s like to live.

5                                                                                                                                           666
                                                                                    407
972
                                                89
                                                                                                        451
                3665

                                                                          4114
                                                                                              The smoke of the last shot of the last gun of the last Soldier waived its white plume of Freedom today.                                                     754                                                13

                                      8                                                                     67
                                                                                                                                                  3089                                                              1337                                  
                                                                                                                                           539

4                                  1
                                          A piece of Peace in fashion for the War we wore.     578                
                                                                                                                   It's all in the numbers.

Lovers.                                  
                                                                                                                               Freedom.
                                                         A Father.

                   Brother.                                                                                Sister.

                                                                                                                    900                                                                                                     Son.

                              733
                                                                                                                                  Daughter.                                                                                                              
                                                                                                                                145
                                                                Mother.


4417.

The Age of Terror is umm,

                                                                                   Accomplished.

So what if I do fall, and you choose to be taken with me;
Would I not, with every care, place a cigarette
Between your lips?

Why, I hardly recognise you.

There is a camera in the first drawer
On the right side of the bedroom
As soon as you enter the door,

But, of course,

Let's wait until, amongst our
Nicotine pleasures,
We find the right kind of laugh;
It is a matter of perspective -- do you
See, if I put it to you like that?

It is by laughter
That I would rather be remembered.
Such maudlin things as falls are better
Left far, far alone.

In our alternative lives,
I probably would have been yours.

We would have blocked the smoke detector,
shared one cigarette after another,
sipped the same glass of luscious red,
with my fingers dancing across your chest,
and your left arm firm under my head.

You would talk to me about your poets,
musicians, photographers, and the others.
I would tell you a name I prefer
and get a good laugh from your grimace.
For you've never liked anyone I love.

We would have gone together to a show,
watching beauty in silent admiration.
Our souls would make love to their utmost
without us even touching each other.
That would be my kind of lovers.

Reality is harsh for the romantic,
but we know better than breaking the rules
for the sake of being rebellious fools.
In our arts we bury the strongest desires,
the only way we can give them life.

Have me already, my alternative self speaks,
for mutual madness is what we seek.
But this life, as close to the end as it is,
has taken you away from me
far too long before we met.

I might have imagined all the things unsaid,
consciously have your words misread.
But this one thing we both know best
is how to hide our fantasized regrets
deep behind our written lines.