We used to have tea parties at 3am
And replace the tea
with whiskey

we used to shake with excitement
from each others breath
life pulsing from our hands
as we exchange a connection

flittering leaves are dropping
like bombs outside my window
each is a reminder that every second
we are farther and farther apart

this year when autumn turns to winter
I will bury myself in a sea of blanket
and close the closet doors
to rest with my ivory counterparts

and I'll give you the key
to free me when dew
kisses the ground once more

release me when your heart thaws
and the weight you bear
in my seemingly empty skull
is reduced to nothing

I'll give you the key

lock me away
to hibernate in an ivory coffin


dissonance has never sounded so sweet

A relapse is not a pretty thing.

As I finally pick up pen and paper
or at least set my fingers fluttering over the keys again,
I have no victory to report.

Medicine has saturated my mind and whisked so much away
acid dissolving the Munich, the Skin Man, the Stalker, and Others...
But as is often the case
when I cast off one
I fall to another

My nights
I sleep well
because I've spent the day pacing, sobbing, wringing my hands
back to where I was before the fear set in
back to where I've always been.

A relapse is
that one drop of cold water
that hits between your shoulder blades
while you take a hot shower
a constant reminder
of the the guilty thing you were

A tiny, tiny vine
snakes across my shoulder
where all of my t shirts and tank tops cover
but even I can see

I'm pretty sure I dreamed you up
Late last night while I was walking in the rain.
I probably shouldn't tell you
That nobody's ever been
Proud
To hold my hand
In front of anyone else.
It probably shouldn't mean something to me
That your fingers felt natural laced with mine.
Everybody has hands,
Everybody can touch me.
Ah,
But few people can touch me
And make me feel it.
I could go on about your voice,
The way you stumble and trip over your words
That tugs at my heart in this deliciously painful way:
I want to stop your confusion
With a kiss.
I could talk about your eyes,
Sparkling, sparking a connection like a short circuit in my head
That makes me have to stop and re-collect myself.
With a ring of dark around the edges of the iris
That I read somewhere makes somebody more beautiful,
Scientifically.
It didn't feel scientific.
It felt gravitational.
I could say lots about the way your hair
Never falls the same way,
And dances, reaching, in the breeze
And somehow the image makes your eyes glow more.
But your hands...
Contact is a thing for me, you see.
Skin.
(Yours.)
I love contact, and it's because
No words get in the way of what you want to say.
If you feel and wish, you need nothing more than a brushing of fingertips
To say exactly what you mean to.
I think you heard me, all night.
I was saying everything
I wasn't saying.
You kept drifting back to me, your fingers on my knee
Or resting in my palm,
And I think that's really what did it,
Honestly.
What made me decide I don't care if this is a terrible idea
(oh it surely is)
I know I should probably make a better show of it-
A token attempt, really, to be smart.
But then again, when
Does that ever work out?
And your fingers twined with mine...
I think you carry some kind of low level electric charge,
And it sizzled through me every time your hand touched mine.
I thought of breaking the connection a hundred times,
Easier for you,
Easier for me,
But god, how impossible.
I held the thought in my mind and it hurt me to consider.
And so instead I pulled you a little closer
And kept going.
Outside walking in the rain early this morning,
When the streets were paved in silver and gold from the sheen of the water
That caught and held the soft glow of the streetlamps
I thought,
"Well ****, this is going to keep me up nights, isn't it?"
And it began immediately
To pour.