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.

Can I come to you as I am,
in secret-
brimming with the need to be held?
Can I lay hot whispers on your skin
then taste how they make you feel?
Can I show you how to touch me,
how hard to press?
If I cry
can I hide salty tears
in the soft curve of your neck?
Can I bite, ever so gently,
before I scream?
Can I be your lover,
without you loving me?
Can I, please?

Anna,
the young lions won't want you
forever.

Eventually you are going to
get tired
of keeping it tight,
of batting your eyes,
of applying the gloss just right.

Anna,
what will you do when the invitation beds
come to an end?

Eventually the lions will settle,
while you gather cobweb and callus,
while you smoke cancer and wallow in cellulite.

Anna,
find a boy who makes you feel like the sun.

Ultimately,
he's the only one who can save your soul
from all the crimes you've done.

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 want the respect that I don't give,
and I want you to notice how blue my eyes are,
and how red my lips are.
I can offer you my hands,
they're exactly as soft as you want them to be.
You can look down my throat,
or bite my finger nails,
anything you want.

I want you to stop talking to me forever,
so that I can think about you all the time,
and I want you to watch me
as if you knew what I meant when I said goodbye.

It always gets to the point where my face is hot
and I can feel it seep into my ears,
and my heart is beating so fast that I'm afraid it'll get tired and stop,
then I'll just be dead.

God's not a dancer,
he doesn't have any feet, or a body,
not to mention a spine.
How could you dance without a spine?

I want you to ask me questions that I can't answer,
and prove to me how much better you are,
or maybe if you stood there and smiled at me long enough,
I'd realize how  tired you really are.

If I stop talking, that means I'm better,
and if I keep talking, that means I'm worse.
I hope you don't understand any of this,
because that would make me a liar,
and I'm sick of being a light that you stare at,
and I'm sick of that chair that you sit in.
but mostly,
I hate the smell of the theater,
and I always wonder why the floors are so sticky,
not that I care, I just have an overactive imagination.

We're romantics,
pretty gossipers.

We try as hard as we can to escape the world with pens,
and we soak page after page,
imagining the ink to be our tears.

We're depressed,
lost travelers.

The words; each hand picked to portray something only we can understand.
Our desperate search for empathy is sickening,
and yet it continues.

We're sweet,
helpless lovers.

We fall in love with every person we see with a symmetrical (enough) face.
Picking up habits that we've read in books,
or saw in an old film.

Why are we poets?