i am yours
and my thighs are yours to separate and
i want you to make a home between them,
breaking in the walls where you deem it necessary
and insulating cold rooms with your own self,
and i want to warm you, too but i don't know how and i fear failure,
I know I speak like a psychologist and that my glare draws crevices in your self-assurance,
but right now this isn't the Me you know

*This is the truth that I will not state explicitly, but will imply through shaky exhales and involuntary lapses in vocal function, with my fingers limp yet imperceptibly begging for you, and my lack of defense when your authoritative hands do what they do.

it's no wonder that the first hint of autumn manifests as tidal waves of conjured memories, as if I've forgotten that the shallow shores of my conscious existence are directly connected to the skull-crushing volumes of water farther out.
The changing of the atmosphere is spinning clockwise, whipping the depths and displacing everything that hasn't seen the light of my attention in about a year.
In the tempest is you
with flailing arms and water in your lungs, because you're dying.

Not you, (i don't even know what your life is now) but your memory at least.

And I'm watching you spin down the drain and not really caring where it leads,
as long as it's not deep into my episodic memory again.

I kept oscillating;
in and out of love,
in and out of emotions,
between the familiar realm of raunchy young adult literature and
the new, slightly uncomfortable realm of raunchy young adult life.
I oscillated between dispositions;
between pensive and restless,
***** and
not remembering what kissing feels like,
between the doldrums of despair and the
weightlessness of bliss.
My center of gravity oscillated, too-
from my head to my heart to
my thighs
to the cavernous void in my amygdala that was once abuzz with stupid chemicals brought out by the hysterics of infatuation

my neck hurts from tilting my head back and trying to squeeze the infinite sky down into my finite peripheral vision
i like feeling small, being compacted under ever-shifting air particles
that have been carried around this earth who-knows-how-many times,
and they'll leave again soon, they have no obligation to me, but they let me inhale them
and absorb them into my bloodstream

I Want To Find a Pair of Eyes Like This

I want the stratosphere condensed into speckled thumbnails,
two-way mirrors that watch me undress my thoughts while simultaneously
showing them to me as they are,
knowing spheres that see through me but enjoy me as their lenses

i want them i want them
i want to find a pair of eyes like the sky

then mere touches lead me to crescendos
and the vibrations linger
for days on end

if an emotion is the striking of a chord,
then sometimes the song you play on my heart strings
is an ominous one

but it always rose to newer heights,
until the song faded on its own

and cacophony replaced
the thrilling harmonies you sang

if an emotion is the striking of a chord,
then all that's left of us is an imperceptible remnant of
a once rapidly-oscillating frenzy

the Mmm's
and the Oh my GOD's
and the soft, closed-mouth moans and the
omniscient hands (how do they know?)
and dissolve all questions and just
give me the gift of
a minuscule fraction of existence
that is untainted
by doubt and
responsibility

when rushing waters are chilled
by absence of heat
and the molecules
slow down
and their movement cannot easily be detected,

the water expands
and pries open any crevice it has seeped into,
intruding and growing and breaking

i need your heat
just for a moment
just to melt the ice
so the waters can flow freely again
and not further erode
my crevices