Her eyes red
from rubbing them raw.
Your throbbing head
From straining every muscle in your jaw
crying on your bed.
This is worse than death.
When your dead you have no one.
But it's better than feeling this alone.
Everything you said was a lie.
You didn't even say goodbye...
Why can't i stop crying?
I'm so weak
i crave a eternal dreamless sleep.

Spur of the moment. You popped up on me tonight. You let your money talk and your tips cried, "I miss you." I tried to keep my guard up and it was hard for me to not kiss you. No matter what you'd do, it would be hard for me to diss you. And I couldn't help but to tell you to come to my place around the time the sun rises, knowing this would pose an issue......Spur of the moment.

I stepped out the shower and fell into your arms, so much passion because I can feel his heart ache. You ripped off my towel and fondled my body as my softly planted kisses charmed your snake. And I notice you like to grip onto my hips. I got annoyed and shoved you on my bed because I was anxious to taste your ****. You almost finished so you made me stop. But when you went down on me......I felt a rush of shame and pleasure as I felt God frown on me.

I'm good for no one. I'm too ******* weak. This is the second time I've cheated this week. I shouldn't have ****** you. Because I keep hurting someone who I claim to love. Writing this as my eyes swell up with sadness and the tears are flying like doves. Trying to silently weep, because you're next to me peacefully asleep....in my satin sheets. And another tear for being shady. I'm supposed to be having his baby. And another tear drops....because I know when I see him I'll kiss him in the mouth. With the same mouth I used to **** and *******. And he'll never know. And another tear because this is twice in a row. It was me just being a ***. Almost premeditated, so it wasn't so......spur of the moment.

Left bank beards
in Beat hotel rooms,
a boulangerie breakfast
down the street and to the left,
and for lunch fresh baked bread and brie.
Letters sent home to fathers and mothers
singing sweet serenades of Paris
dressed up in autumn shades,
cheques for the royalties that'll
get them to Belize to write and swoon,
chat up ladies in the early afternoon;
where hotel fees that are treble those in the 5th,
bookshop stalls that'll never be found
another closing-down-establishment myth.

They were climbing with oxygen
long before we came along,
base camp poems written under
floor lamplight right before
the eyes of others.
Jett powered prose and wine in the light
sleight-of-hand punctuation and uptight
editors looking for finer narration.

the best kind of love my head tells me is the kind that doesn’t leave anything behind,
because things that last have the power to linger and break and mutate and ache

but if
you ride on a feeling that only lasts the night
it will be intense and extreme and unforgiving and wonderful and even
belief in the right to take something more does not exist and all it leaves is

a final indelible wistfulness

He said, "These rooms are rarely vacant but so often they are empty. Darling, you can stay here tonight but don't leave the lamp on for too long. I know you've been up reading through the morning. I can see it in the shadows under your eyes & the red light seeping through them but I can promise you that no amount of literature will bring him back to the foot of your bed. He's nothing but a stale hospital scent after a wasted year in rehab & a crooked smile. It's better to forget what love is like than to crave it from the same **** boy for the rest of your **** life."