It's interesting how when the smell of your tshirt mingles
with the scent of the cinnamon bread you made me,
I feel you next to me.
As if while you baked it, you infused it with yourself,
only released with heat, and the memories it brings about.
Because it all comes back to that shirt, the fabric to bridge the gap,
the fragrance of your body that I only notice when you're gone.
It must be the reason for how, when I lay down in your shirt,
in my bed where we were, the smell of your body
that only makes me smile while awake
brings you to me when I sleep,
making me question conversations we've had,
if they happened outside of pure imagination.
And even in my mind I can feel your warmth,
my hand lacing with yours above your head,
every part of our bodies fitting together like the most
intricate of puzzle pieces.
Every touch is reminiscent of a dancer's embrace,
and dancing has given us intimate knowledge of each others
body, but something unseen gives us
greater understanding of the rest.
So when we're close we don't talk, we don't need to.
No words can be exchanged that we don't already know,
that we don't already feel,
that haven't already been said across 90 miles.
It's a large span, yet we could build a bridge,
connect ourselves,
with the things we've said in spite of it,
the conversations that spur small visits and make it all bearable.
And each declaration brings you closer, so when I close my eyes
my head finds your shoulder.
My hips find your hips,
my love wraps yours like a ring wraps my finger
if just for a night, if just for a moment,
if only in my mind.

I feel like a small frightened child, one who has become lost in the deep dark woods of every child’s nightmares, cold, alone, well past “losing one’s cool” and just precious inches away from “flipping one’s ****,” the only things that I possess a flashlight that I cannot figure out how to switch on, a compass that only points backwards and a magical, wish granting genie that only speaks in a language that I have never heard and therefor do not  understand while at the same time am not understood, whose only option to improve his situation is to sit in one spot and wait for help to arrive but what if it doesn’t  so I am forced to action to fashion crude tools and build a shelter and hunt and cook and survive because no one is going to find me and I am not going to find my way out, so I must live in the forest of nightmares and darkness...
...and then I begin to wonder if that small child is not a child at all, but an aging man in a worn bathrobe, alone in a darkened room in an asylum, sitting under a table with a bed sheet hanging over the sides like a makeshift tent, trying desperately to find the “ON” button of an empty pill bottle while I wait for a wound out, wind up clock to find North during the stock market numbers on the local Hispanic radio station, forever stuck in the nightmare forest created by his own mind, which is somehow less terrifying than the reality of his unreality...
...because it is beginning to become very muddled in both of those places and I am beginning to lose track of his self so here looks like a good place to sit down and wait for help to not arrive and over there a good spot to build a temporary cemetery plot to rest my weary hours and while away the bones because unless I figure out a way to sort his self out, I will forget to send for help that I am tired of waiting for and the seconds in the dark that were not there a moment ago and may not be here now will be gone forever when the clock strikes South-East and I am left alone again with only a snot nosed codger and a loony old brat, looking out a window that directly faces a brick wall, watching and praying for the sun to rise on its horizon.

99 cent wars, rooftops, Gibraltar Screaming "god bless the fabulous" Christs;

In the eyes of years
Man is king only over that which breathes,
So let's throw hugs in the air,
sit on flowers and vanish to Cook stones on the hips of Cleopatra
with all of December's left footed children

For through the cried ***** tears of furry German banana caskets,
Eternity awaits
In the failures of our greatest triumphs,

So let's dance

After all, Psychological Wednesday societies
Are only good for curing Xbox manifestos and Tuesday sanities

And if we died one day,
it sure won't be yesterday.

Who am I?
I'm a dreamer. I'm hopeful. I'm a bag of bones interconected with emotions, through my veins runs as much excitement as blood.

I am messy hair, small eyes and steady hands and my hair is as wild as me, and my small eyes catch all the  beauty hidden in the corners, and my steady hands become an earthquake when I'm about to be kissed.

I'm in my twenties. I'm a teenager in matters of love and I'm a grandma when taking care of my friends. I'm a beast when it comes to fighting and I'm the weakest when it comes to crying. I feel too much and show too little.

I'm a daughter, a sister and a friend. I'm worried. I'm anxious. I'm happy. I'm a rave as much as I'm a book and coffee. I talk until my voice fades but my mouth is a tomb for secrets.

I'm a writer and a reader. I'm a dancing machine and a shower singer.

I'm raising an eyebrow when I don't believe you. I'm a random kiss on the shoulder when I love you. I'm cafuné when I care for you.

I'm optimistic. I'm cautious. I'm becoming what I always wanted to be. I'm strongheaded and lighthearted. I'm in constant wait for the world to show me this is not it and fairytale endings exist.

A friend can be like the storm that blows everything up, tries your patience, causes changes; but reminds you to be geared up and vigilant.    



A friend can be like the rain that, at the first pour, leads into anxiety; but later on, raindrops keep you calm, thus a friend shows tranquillity upon everyone – serene and happy.



A friend can be like a lightning rod that strikes everyone surprise with annoyance to the ears; but reminds you that a surprise – with all its noises – grants unsolicited bliss which lasts in memory.



A friend can be like a cloud that separates from the others in the vastness of the expanse, and floats alone – the emo, ; but reminds you to be considerate and sympathetic at all times.  



A friend can be like the mist that seems mysterious and unreachable, full of secrets and vagueness; but reminds you to take risk of knowing him profoundly so to appreciate the truth within.



A friend can be like the sun – superior in nature – that can heat up the situation; but gives you warmth in times of coldness, reminds you that darkness would just pass, and that the new morning unfolds soon to absorb your pessimisms.



And a friend is as constant as this – day or night, sunny or rainy, cold or warm, filled or cloudless – the azure that covers everyone beneath any threat, any trial, any worry, any doubt; the azure that holds a promise of watching over you as it did yesterday and is doing today, and the azure that awaits your hopeful tomorrow…



Is that which embraces you under its shelter and defence – yes, the great sky.