I wonder what you taste like,
I can't help it.
It doesn't matter how many times our lips touch,
it's not the same.
In the morning when you make me coffee,
I wonder what it's like to be beneath your skin.
While you drink your cup,
and smile,
I secretly want to drink you,
but I smile back instead.

I've been reading your poetry lately,
wondering if it's about me.
I've been crying lately,
because I'm in love.
I've tied myself down with wishes,
all of them are about you.
I've done a lot of things,
all of them were for you.

When I wake up next to you,
it's better than any cigarette.
I try not to stare,
afraid you'll wake up.
So instead I stare at the ceiling,
the one I've memorized.
I hope the addiction isn't obvious,
although, that would make things easier.

It's hard to tell someone else's lover these kind of things,
it's inappropriate.

No matter how much I love you.

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.

There are never any suicides in the quarter among people one knows
No successful suicides.
A Chinese boy kills himself and is dead.
(they continue to place his mail in the letter rack at the Dome)
A Norwegian boy kills himself and is dead.
(no one knows where the other Norwegian boy has gone)
They find a model dead
alone in bed and very dead.
(it made almost unbearable trouble for the concierge)
Sweet oil, the white of eggs, mustard and water, soap suds
and stomach pumps rescue the people one knows.
Every afternoon the people one knows can be found at the café.

If my Valentine you won't be,
I'll hang myself on your Christmas tree.

Desire and
All the sweet pulsing aches
And gentle hurtings
That were you,
Are gone into the sullen dark.
Now in the night you come unsmiling
To lie with me
A dull, cold, rigid bayonet
On my hot-swollen, throbbing soul.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

The end was tranquil
Her eyes remained open wide
To mirror my tears