we keep the house cold
so that we can trace life
out of the puffs of clouds
that hum from our lips.
as he skates off the bed
feet nibbling
at the floor boards,
arms drizzling
past his waist,
he sits on the edge of the air
changing what filters into my lungs
with each yawn that stretches from him-
his pale back angled to my face, I
stretch my legs towards him,
resting my feet on his back,
toes tucking into the brails
of his spine,
and we wait within
the beauty of those ripe days,
when everything fell
on our swollen eyelids.

I decided to write a poem about you,
To express my feelings,
But as I put pen to paper,
I realised I didn't know what to write,
So I started reminiscing memories,
The way you smile when you look at me,
It's the kind of look you only see once in a lifetime,
And now I realise I don't want to share any of our other memories
Because a smile of yours is enough
To write a whole poem about

like a fish out of water
walking backwards upstream
grand illusion of compliance
buying nothing sight unseen

respecting their essence
detached from their path
connected in spirit
repelled by all wrath

norms without ethics
morality sans love
passion ever searching
a need to rise above

heart sinking hatred
mind numbing neglect
mountain moving greed
rarely circumspect

not infrequently i ponder
how my being was unfurled
wondering deeply in my soul
if i belong to another world

i think people die because they're all used up. whether they're 18 or 80, something inside them has run out of fuel. something inside them wants to be loved, or idolized, or immortalized or whatever they're after and they've run out of whatever makes it happen. so they die or they **** themselves and they fulfill their greatest desire; to be lost, to be mourned, and to escape the void they've been digging themselves out of their entire lives. six feet under.

How many times can
we write about heartbreak
& how many words does it take
to describe anguish,
the end of the world
as we now it?

How many stanzas
can be made to talk about hate
& how many verses
can be written to alleviate
the terse nature
of a crushed spirit?

O pray tell, tell me ******!

His lips spoke a thousand lies, but his hands held, what once dwelled inside.
Hands that reached so far into the oblivion, valleys of scars stretch along the inner flesh of his arms.
Hands like his fathers because he didn't know them, especially when they were tightening around another's neck.
Hands that bruised then bandaged, then bruised again when they were pulled off like a new band-aid.
Hands like a broken home that could only be whole again clasped in the hands of another, or on the body of a lover.
Hands that left fingerprints on my thighs, my heart, my mind.
So I will never forget where he once dwelled inside.