when the wrinkles stretching like dusty roads across your achilles tendons
turn into the red and green highways tangling themselves across a map
and when the valley of your lower back accepts my kisses like low-hanging clouds
over fields of tall yellow grass
when your shoulder blades reach up towards me
like lightning rubbing the clouds in the darkness of the morning;
your eyes like a tempest,
always foggy blue with waves overflowing out of the corners
when they just can't take the cold icy winds or boundaries of the shore;
when i see your lovely eyes when looking at dusty roads and maps and valleys and grass and clouds and oceans,
that's when i give my entire world to you.

I looked at you
and I was at peace,
thinking you had a beautiful family
and wishing you
nothing but happiness.

today I felt nothing
but the hole in the back of my skull
isn't that sad
no
go awaY

I told you that you kissed like you were in a hurry.
and that sounds bad
because everything's always in a hurry,
especially trains and people and heartbeats
especially the eventual wane of affection
and we both know that heaven forbid
our kisses should have an expiration date
when that inevitable phase chisels down
and god forbid
our kisses should be the cause

but that's not what I meant.
I meant
you kiss like you mean it
and I've never been kissed with meaning.
you kiss like the world is on your lips
you kiss like that excited feeling that you get
when one is on a train and hurtling towards a destination and the train could never go fast enough.
you kiss with your hands and your eyes and your voice like silver
you kiss like nothing could stop you,
as if your personality could kick down doors.

you know what, **** it.
I'm not going to pretend like I'm an articulate person.
all I know is that I've been floating around all day,
kissing people's cheeks
and grinning to myself
and feeling my heart flutter
because I get to see you all over again
and kiss you
and I've never been this unapologetically, unashamedly happy in my life.
and everybody can see it written all over my ******* face,
but I don't give eight cares about them.

I smoke to try and clear my head,
but it doesn't help.
chain smoking won't stop the fact
that I think you're cute.

call me your puppet
and snip my strings
for i have seven, respectively
one for my head
two for my hands
two for my feet
one for my heart
and one for my mouth -
they are called
LUST for knowledge;
GREED for your skin;
WRATH in thrown punches and lit matches and blood and middle fingers;
SLOTH-like motivation;
VANITY of my light footsteps like deer hooves;
ENVY of people who aren't ******* anxious all the time and ******* down coffee all day;
GLUTTONY of unnecessary words.

a dedicated hound stands at unwavering attention
on a hot summer's day
tied to a stake of sadness by a string of loneliness
paws in the dust

a black cat slithers by
pauses a moment, then continues on his way
the hound pulls and pulls at the string,
becomes excited,
and when the cat has faded from the dog's short memory,
as all cats eventually do,
the rowdiness still remains
but the dog can't remember what for