The frigid air catches between her shoulder blades
winding the wings of the key.
She begins to shiver to life as gears are set to motion.
                                                         ­          The wooden bench shrinks,
her lips begin to part and let out
                                                             ­          balmy breath of steam
                                                           ­                                                                 ­    a smog that fogs his glasses.
She’s wound and bound to kiss him.
                                                            ­                                                                 ­                   He wants this, too.
                                                            ­                                                                 ­     His engine begins to putter
                                                          ­                                                                 ­              as he begins to pucker.
                                                         ­              Their cold lips meet,
and while an explosion in her core smolders,
                                                       ­                                                                 ­                 he feels like a machine,
                                                        ­                                                                 ­    running through the motions,
                                                        ­                                                                 ­             trying to produce magic,
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                   but feeling artificial.
                                                     ­                                                                 ­                  A bolt must be *******,
                                                        ­                                                                 ­                       a wire out of place,
                                                          ­                                                               something is jamming his gears,
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                 a rhythm out of beat.
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                  He should feel alive.
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                  He should want this.
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                 He should want this.
                                                           ­             Its just animatronics.
                                                   ­           Aren’t men built to love women?
                                                          ­          He pushes her face off his.
                                                            ­                            Anxiety fills his pipes and dew begins to condensate,
while the fire in her eyes are put out by the black
like oil streaking her face.
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                                  He’s sorry.
                                                          ­                                                                 ­                               He’s so sorry.
                                                          ­                   He hurt her.
                                                            ­                                                                 ­                      He hurt a friend.
                                                    Wind so white fills the distance between them
                                                            ­His wet hands grab her red mittens,
but she flinches and protects them like tiny finches
and puts them back inside her cage,
safe in her black pocket,
and walks away, leaking,
busted and broken.
White erases her.
                                                            ­                       He’s left to be a Tin Man who wants to rust in the snow.
                                                           ­                                                        A dent has shattered his almost love,
                                                           ­                                                        and a first kiss he wished he missed.

This is an absolute true story:
Once upon a time, a girl wore a paper crown upon her head and declared herself queen of the world.
She ran through the forests, quickly, and she knew how to hide from civilization.
She strung lights across the trees for dusk, so the light danced across the sky when she danced and asked for rain.
She was alone and liked it that way, except at cold nights when the wind blew through the leaves and howled louder then she could ever try.
She could hunt, run, skip, leap, climb, and hide. She was good at everything and she quick and cunning that all the foxes began to worship her.
Once she ran into a bear and stood her ground so well that the bear bowed down to her.
But at night, when the owls had stopped making sound, she would cry herself to sleep, and feel an emptiness in her heart.
It was an emptiness in her bones that no cheerful melody of a bird could ring out.
It was an emptiness that no warm rabbit could try to rub out of her skin.
A sorrow, an ache, a longing for something that started with an l, but that even the little silver fish could never give her with little kisses.
And that was how she lived for all her life.

I just finished texting you on December 31st
Sunday night, or maybe you consider that a Monday morning
and a country song just came on the radio
I couldn't help but to think about how much I hate country music
I hate the stereotypical voice the singer always sings,
the predictable pattern of strung guitar strings
So, at 2:24 am, on a December 31st, Sunday night/Monday morning

I started to wonder if you liked country music
Or believed too that it's tacky
I wonder if "tacky" even exist in your vocabulary
Where did you get your vocabulary?
Did your mom raise you to believe words would be your greatest ally
Was she raised with more than one language
I wonder what your ancestor's native language sounds like
And if it was ripped out of their tongues
Like culture in our history books
what stories were told from those tongues that history books could never tell
I wonder, what kind of stories you've carved in lover's mouths
with just your, tongue.

I wondered if you've ever lost someone
I wonder if you've ever lost yourself
If you did, where did you find yourself?
Did you find yourself in your palms over bent knees
That kissed the ground that at one time
kissed your feet.

I wonder when we'll meet
I wonder if I'll meet your best friend. If shell ever get scared
You'll replace her with me
And if I'll have to tell her, she's irreplaceable.
I wonder what's your favorite places you've been to
The places that made you smile to your human anatomy's most potential
And I wonder how much you know about your own human anatomy
I wonder if you know that an average heart beats 100,000 times a day
Pumping almost 2,000 gallons of blood through its chambers
Over a 70 year lifespan, that adds up to about 2.5 billion heartbeat
And sitting here, just wondering about you- you made me skip a few.

It's now 3:07 a.m.
And I'm wonderin' if you've ever wondered what it would be like to be loved by a poet
To have your body be put words and your words be put against my body
To have lips match figurative language to the figure of your body
And write love poems on your cheek
And I wonder if you even consider me a poet.

What are the events in your life you consider poetic?
If your life was a poem, what kind of poem would your
8th grade English teacher categorize it as?
If you were a curious child and if now
You're ever curious about me
If my mind ever wanders while I wonder about you
And if I could ever weaver it back

At 3:21 a.m., December 31st, Sunday night, Monday morning
I'm wondering if you're wondering about me.
Or if you ever wonder if I've ever lost myself, but more recently, lost my mind writing poetry

I wonder if you wonder if I consider myself a poet.
I wonder, if at 3:27 am, if you're awake too,
Wondering if I like country music.

I want to breathe smoke
I want to dance in the rain
I want to redefine what it means to be insane

I want to tear down the walls
I want to flip the script
I want to rewrite the laws in a way I see fit

I want you to love me
I want not to care
I want to sell you your madness
At a price that's unfair

I want to cure all that's ugly
And purify the soul
I want to build you a maze
Then tell you which way to go

I want to stay young
I want to grow old
I want to disprove all of the lies you've been told

I want to be brilliant
While still being bland
I want to make love to you
I wanna hold your hand
I want to decipher all of the things that you don't understand
I want to reveal to you God's "Grand Master Plan"

I want to say all the right things
I want to control what I think
I want to find your battleship
And make that mother sink

I want another cigarette
I need another drink
I'm having such a hard time
Just trying to fall asleep

I want to inspire
I want to get inside your head
If I'm so tired
Why can't I just go to bed

I don't want to retire
I don't want it to end
I'll keep stoking this fire
I'll sleep when I'm dead

She's got hands like home
that open doors
when I'm alone.
Her arms are walls
that hold me close
with memories, sweetness
and all of the most
wonderful things
she has shown.
I swear I was homeless
till her hands like home.

Eloïse wears too much makeup
And a bright red scarf
To the supermarket
Because she’s invisible.
She could feel herself
Melting away like a birthday candle.
With every new gray hair.
The colour of her lips and eyes
Drained out like oil
Into her blue veins
Which ran like maps of
Cities she’d traveled to
And loved within.

Eloïse wears too much makeup
And a bright red scarf
To the supermarket
But they still don’t see Her.

She's an escape
To say the least

When I'm lost
Surrounded by demons
For her attention I be feigning
She so lost in her own thoughts
That she didn't notice me there
I guess she was unaware
Because she put that little sign on the door
That read...
"Boys Beware"....
She already than caught on to game
Or just got tired of hearing the same
So maybe that's why I stuck up in here
To spit some poetry in her ear
Not just things she want to hear
But words to make everything crystal clear

I let her know my mind wonders about her
When I no longer want to think about the pain
From my past relations
She is my medication
She is my motivation
She is my oxygen
She is my best friend
She is my escape....