No amount of toothpaste can wash away the taste of who you were last night

The words, foreign lips, and alcoholic tint of 3 a.m. hide in the corners of your smile

I do believe you think the sun rising again causes some rebirth of you and erasure of the night

But though the dark of the world may fade the dark of you may not.

I wish I could tell you it was a Thursday,
Maybe give the beginning of our extra load a concrete date.
But I can't tell you it was Thursday and I
Can't tell you it wasn't.
Sometimes I'm glad the devil is in the details
Because then with me he'll never be found.

I want all the cliches with you
I want the kiss underneath the mistletoe,
I want the kiss on New Year's,
I want to give you roses and chocolate on Valentine's Day,
I want to go egg hunting with you,
I want a picnic, ants and all,
I want to sit and watch the stars,
And I want to kiss your nose when it's cold

But even though I won't get it,
I can still dream can't I?
Dreams are all I have left

They're all I have left.

me.gs

my eyes
like grey, dish-has-been-washed-liquid
mellow at the sh-sh of night

but my mouth
brook babbles
blinking rapidly
like distracted toddler eyes
popping your name into the yes of time
to sample your existence

Yesterday, in a fit of laughing passion
                               and monstrous adrenaline
I spun out of my dorm and
                                          went long boarding.
                                                                            between the speed wobbles and
                        maniacal laughter emanating from my
                 masterful failure, I dreamt slyly that
                                                        you were the wheels carrying me crazily
zigzagged through the flushed streets
or maybe
you wove the road that carved
                                                              into my emotion- threatening both
                                                                  that you will act too placidly or at the same time maybe
                              too precariously.  (ripping my shaking
                                                                ankles from their humanity and
                                                                                         introducing them suddenly-obnoxiously to               Course Pavement) You do have that
                                               kind of capacity you know, to
                                                                                     lift me into a peaceful rest or
       throw me into a turbulent anarchic spiral.  
But truly you are the 100 % bamboo
                            flexible fibers flowing
                                                              between me and the gravel demise lifting me
                                                   gently upon the wind of the road,
                          the adrenaline that courses through my sporadic
                                                                                                   insistence and
                                              the breeze that whites my cheeks and
                                                 sings my lullaby relationship between speed
and the thin thread of life
                                             spinning through my caustic veins.

I sit thinking, rocking, musing on the edge of the bed- perusing the colors of your memory blinking fractionally in my remote consciousness.  How is it that when I probe tighter, more thoroughly into your visage, trying to define the shape of your face from the faces of my dreams you tend to hide more than ever behind the noise of my thoughts? But the instant I clip into happiness you are there laughing and hugging and spreading lightness on my plaster cast life.  I suppose I need to forget this sticky fear of forgetting you.  You shape my clay life, pressing deftly upon my mind and habits like a waffle iron crisping batter.  I must not forget that I am too deeply stuck in love with you to ever bleed you from my mind.

I live in a world
            full of people with your name
but not the way you articulate the consonants
            or the way your eyes dare
listeners to
            contradict your intricate intonation.

                      correction

I live in a world
           full of people who think they can have your name
without having your soul.

He is my least favorite vegetable.
                                                   
                       No amount or level of preparation makes him taste better:
Boiling-
brings out his bulbous, insipid ego
the texture of his flamboyant ignorance.

when I timorously sip him in soups or broths,
his oozing insidious misogyny
contaminates my blissful dining, contorts any ingredients still pure.

I fry him, striving to remove the  
excess of impertinence which
permeates the oxygen I feebly inhale.
but he evades my maneuvers:
usurps bliss and violates all semblance of tranquility

I cannot prevail
against the throb of his assaulting narcissism

I must instead attempt
to comment
(arduously, fraudulently)
on the delicate iridescence of his silkily mucoused membranes
and admire deftly
his indefatigable ventures to pervade my
every.
serenity.