Seven bottles filled with candle wax line my windowsill.
It's took me fifty-six days to fill them.
A bottle holds about eight candles
and I only burn the candles on days I feel empty.

Hemingway wasn't cutting it
soI cut three lines
and blew them in rapid succession.

I put on Vampire Weekend and jacked off
to a picture of you until my **** hurt.
It's night like these
and it's **** like Tommy's
that make me wonder why I started using.
Not even high enough
to sleep,
I stumble around my room
as my ****** nose leaves stains on my carpet.

I try to keep my room clean
and I try to stay clean
and I try to use clean words
but it's nights like these
and it's **** like Tommy's
that make me a ******* loser.

It's night like these
and it's words like yours'
and it's **** like Tommy's
and it's music like Ezra's
and it's loneliness like mine
when I want to not wake up in the morning.
If I ever fall asleep.

He stands,
cigarette in hand,
golden hair blowing in the wind.

Except it's not blowing because he cut it all off.
If you ask him why he'll tell you he doesn't know;
he just wanted a change.

He'll pick you up when you're
feeling blue and he'll calm you down
when you're feeling red.

With his hands he creates music
and with his mouth he creates laughter.
He is the essence of humanity.

He'll take notice when you do good
and he'll call you out when
you're acting like a ****.

He stands,
Bertran the Man,
atop his white van,
cigarette in hand,
short hair reflecting the sunlight.

He'll tell you he loves you,
only if he means it,
and by God he will make
you feel it.

I want to rip apart my flesh,
burn myself until no pieces are left.

I want to pull all my hair at
and shove it down my throat
so I can finally get some sleep.

I want to die
and I want to sleep forever
and I want to not hurt
or be hurt
or hurt
or be hurt.

I want to bury my face in the ground
so I can never say evil things again.
I want to **** everybody around me
so I will never feel jealous again.

I want to drown the ******* stars
so no one will ever look at them again.

After years of fighting
I've learned to retreat
at the first sign of love.

If a tree is never given a chance to take root
it will not grow to bear poisonous fruit and if words never proclaim love,
then love can never be lost.

A heart beats inside my chest,
but is that sound enough evidence
that I can love,
or not hurt at best.

I try and I try and I try
but good feelings never come from my efforts,
so I take and I take and I take
and make beautiful people cry.

I should be tearing myself apart,
unearthing every sin
and dark place,
to find even the remains of a heart.

I remember the moment I fell in love with you.

You were sitting on a red couch with a very drunk boy,
and you had a cigarette with red lipstick stains on the filter.
Like the couch and the lipstick, your cheeks were red.

I went up to you and looked at you.
Your eyes were dilated that night,
and even though I couldn't see it, the shade of blue in your eyes will always be my favorite.

Your hand grasped mine as you stood up,
and the grasped my neck as we fell back down;
A heap of good intentions turned sour by methamphetamine cut MDMA,
and kisses wet with passion and rain.

In the darkness you whispered yes to every question I asked,
but in the light of the following days
your eyes would not even chance upon mine,
and I've only heard your voice with the subtle undertones of contempt.

You laugh in the same way you did that night,
and I bet you look at the stars in the same way
but your eyes never seem to shine like them.

*** is
the only way I've been able
to satisfy my desire for you,
without sticking a straw in my nose,
or shoving pills down my throat,
or smoking god knows what.
*** is
the only way I've been able
to not cry out to you.
Yet,
somehow *** makes me yearn for you more,
*** makes me crave you more,
and *** makes me realize how desperately I want you.

It's always been you,
from the day I've met you.
There's been other girls,
too many other girls,
too few other girls,
and there's been you.
So unattainable,
so out of reach,
but not out of mind.
There's always been you,
and until you are in my bed,
until your fingers leave marks on my back,
until yours is the first voice I hear,
you will not be out of mind,
and even after then you will not be out of mind.

Abigail Turnman walked along the same sidewalk she did every morning before she had to work. She had the same breakfast from the same dive as she did the morning before.

As she was sweetening her coffee she looked up and into two very dazzling blue eyes, belonging to a young man seated at the table across from hers. She looked down quickly, sweetening her coffee, while she blushed.
She usually didn't get flustered like this and she hated that she was just because some dumb boy was looking at her. She looked back up and he smiled at her, revealing a mouth of uneven, yet not horribly uneven, stained, yet not horribly stained teeth. She blushed again, this time she smiled back.

"Are you Abigail Turner?" The young man asked in a voice that sounded as if it didn't get much sleep the night before. While he was asking this Abigail noticed his hair, a dark shade of brown, lighter and shorter on the sides, as if it had months before belonged to a military man.
"No," Abigail responded humorously, "My name is Abigail Turnman." She blushed again, at the stupidness of her joke. God, how she hated that this young man was making her blush this way. As if in response to her stupid joke or in embarrassment in having gotten her name wrong the young boy laughed and blushed, but not as much as she had.
He had only a coffee on his table and so she asked him if he would like to join her for breakfast. The young man smiled again before standing up. As he did, his hair fell into his eyes, which he quickly brushed out of the way before nodding and sitting down, across from her, coffee in hand.
"How did you almost know my name?"
Again, the young man laughed.
"Mark, uhh Callahan. He said he cleans up at your office and that I should speak with you."
Oh, Mark. There's a sweetheart if she ever knew one.

And in that instant she knew she could grow to love how this young man made her blush. Instead of hating it she would prize and cherish and she would include characters modeled after him in all her novels.
She didn't even know his name.

"So, you're a friend of Mark's huh?"
She asked this in a more confrontational way then she meant to and the young man seemed to recoil before he saw her blushing again, knowing that she had not intended to ask it in such a way.
"Yes, Mark is a friend of mine. Since high school actually. Uhh, my name is Henry, but uhh," he laughed softly, "my friends call me Hank."
"Well Mark is a sweetheart. So, if I'm not mistaken, you must be native here? At least since high school."
"Yes, I was actually born here, but uhh, if I'm not mistaken, you're from uhh New York, right? The city?"
As much as a sweetheart Mark was, he sure was talkative as hell.
Before she had a chance to say anything, Hank began talking again.
"So, uhh," he laughed softly, nervously almost, "I uhh, I hope this isn't too upfront, but I was hoping, uhh wondering actually, if you were doing anything tonight. My band and I are playing at the Stonehouse, it's a uhh, a charity show for Jonathan, our drummer, uhh his mom. She's fighting cancer, uhh, her condition has been improving but she still needs money for bills and stuff. I mean, you don't even have to pay, you know, I could ahh, I could sneak you in the back or whatever, I mean, uhh, it woudn't technically be.."
She cut him off,
"Yeah, sure I'll go. What time is it?"
He smiled even wider than he had the whole conversation,
"It starts at 8, uhh, it's at the Stonehouse, uhh, ****, I already said that. Oh ****- oh, sorry, pardon my language."
She pulled a pen out of her purse and began writing the address to her apartment on a napkin. Hank continued talking, mumbling, uhh-ing, but he trailed off as she handed the napkin to him.
"Pick me up at 7," she said, "We can go get some dinner before the show, you probably half to be there early right?" He nodded, "Okay, make it 6:30. This is the only diner I know, I've only been here since the start of summer, maybe you could show me some nice place to eat?"
He nodded, smiling and blushing and pushing the hair out of his eyes and scratching his arm and shifting in his seat anxiously.
"Now, it was lovely meeting you Hank, but if I don't leave now, I will be late walking to work, I'll see you at 6:30"
"Yeah, I'll uhh, I'll see you at 6:30"
She stood up and so did he. She was halfway across the diner before Hank kicked himself for being so stupid.
"Hey, do you need a ride to work? I mean, it's uhh, it's no trouble."
"Thank you, Hank, but I'll walk. I'll see you at 6:30, okay?"
She smiled a dazzling smile of white teeth, framed by golden hair, cut short, almost short enough to be considered a pixy cut.
She was out the door as Hank mumbled something stupid.

It's a Thursday night
and I'm higher than I've been
all week.

The boy told me this was the good stuff (as he does every week) so I took it on faith that he was exaggerating.

Two blows later
and I can barely read the late Mr. Vizzini's words.
My body feels warmer than it has
since November of 2012,
and my face is itchier than my last year in Boy Scouts, circa 2008.

The walls of my room seems a lighter shade of purple than the have in years
and my carpet is not as stained as it was this morning.

Old Polaroids of my parents' wedding are tacked on my wall,
and in those pictures my grandmother is the most beautiful women in the world.

Thank God for muscle memory,
and thank God for compulsive *******,
and thank God unsharpened pencils,
and thank God for everything else that my body knows how to do and everything that I can see in my room and put down in this poem.

There is no purpose to this,
but today I asked a friend of mine
why she is always looking at the sky
and she told me because if she looks at it long enough
it isn't the sky at all.
It is her
and she can speak to herself
and she can thank God for compulsive ******* and ****** science fiction literature.

A man steps onto the sidewalk,
his new two hundred dollar shoes catch the sunlight.
He checks his watch.
Five minutes past noon, already.
He has twenty five minutes left for lunch
and however much he would like to go to The Blue Room and blow fifty bucks on lunch, he only has time to walk to the hot dog stand done the street.
"Oh well," he thinks, "maybe it will bring back some nostalgic memories of my father."
He laughs.

After taking one bite of his hotdog, he remembers how his father used to yell at him.
"Timmy," his father would say, "when are you going to get off your *** and earn money like a man? When are you going to make your father proud?"
His mother would yell from the next room, which would always spark an argument.
"John," she'd yell, "don't yell at my son! He's 14, he doesn't need a job!"
They would yell and yell and each time Timmy's father hit his wife, he would take another swig from his flask. He ended up drinking himself to death by the time John was in college (which his father never paid a time for).

Lighting up one-twentieth of a twelve dollar pack of cigarettes,
he began walking back to his office, where he made the better end of $90,000 dollars annually, after taxes.
He heard a voice beside him ask for a cigarette.
Turning around, not at all surprised with what he saw, he grudgingly handed one-twentieth of his twelve dollar pack of cigarettes to a *****, unshaven man.
"Thanks a lot, white"
"What was that supposed to mean," thought John.
"What the hell was that supposed to mean?" John asked the man.
"Chill out, white, man, I mean white collar, you know, rich boy?"
"You know why I'm a rich boy, huh dirt?" John never usually said such things but thinking about his father put him an a bad mood. As did the breaking down of his self tanner the night before.
"I'm a rich man because I work hard, and I don't sit around on my *** and *** smokes off a man who actually earns them. Why don't you get a job, huh? Why don't you stop being a *******? Why don't you stop being the black eye of modern America and do something with your life?"
John was breathing hard at this point. He would lose no sleep over saying those things.
The man smiled politely, and looked at John for a second, before saying:
"I don't make money, simply because I don't need money."
A pause.
"Do you realize why I don't need money? I don't need money because it isn't important. Do you know what is important?"
The man tapped his heart, and then his head,
"These are important. My heart is healthier than yours and so is my head. I am free. I can sit on the street corner and eat your scraps, or I can take a bus to California and eat Californian's scraps. I am free. I can do whatever I want, man. I can run with the bulls in Spain, I can run with the taxis here. But leave, your lunch our is almost over and we wouldn't your boss getting mad at you, would we? So run along, little slave, little slave to money. Have a nice day and thanks for the smoke."

The man left before John did.
John called in sick to work, and he was indeed sick.
How could this man possibly think he was better than John?
John didn't lose any sleep over what he said,
but he lost a lot of sleep,
and a lot of ***,
and a lot of money,
because this man was right.
John wasn't free.

I guess you got tired of
the drugs
and the poor treatment
and the lack of responsibility
so you left.

I see you,
running with your new crowd.
We prefer shrooms,
so the feelings we experience can be stronger.
They prefer alcohol,
so they will not be held responsible for their actions.

That boy you're spending all your time with,
do you know what I heard him say?
In simple language,
without flashy adjectives,
I heard him announce that he got drunk,
but he made sure not get as drunk as her
so that she would do whatever he wanted.
I heard him,
through a closed bathroom door,
apologizing to a girl he had been rude to years ago,
but now she was hot,
so they should hangout.
I heard her exhale loudly
and watched her leave the bathroom.
She saw me and asked if I wanted to join her for a cigarette.

Looking back on it,
I wish you would join me.
For anything.

But you run with the self proclaimed nice guys
and I run with the equally as lame,
self proclaimed stoners.

I know this:
what goes around comes around.
The trespasses that I have committed unto others
have been committed unto me in equal measure
and I'm sure one day
those nice guys will get theirs,
and I only hope you
realize how to get yours
on your terms.

Red shoes on black carpet.
She skips across the floor, hands together pulling her small body forward.
From room to room she hustles, skirt all about her, not bothering to fix her hair.

I can see her in my dreams, with unclouded eyes she looks back at me.
She smiles at me in my dreams, and when I dream of her withdrawls do not wake up.

She is my *****.
She is more beautiful than the flower
and has the *** appeal of the powder.

A man walks down the same street he did a month ago.
His shoes are slightly more worn than when he last made this trek.
Although the sun rests in the same spot and the trees whisper in the same way, he feels cold.

That is to say that love sings in a different way when you are alone.
Love can taste like strawberry lips or it can taste like cheap brandy, the only difference is with what you purchase it.

Stomachs fill
and bottles empty
and pictures are burned
along with bridges.

To be a second choice is not good.
To now you are a second choice
and being happy that you are a choice at all
is not good.

I came to her with a heavy heart
and a poem
and I asked her if she could hold me up
and for a moment she did
but falling to the floor
I realized her heart was heavy enough for her.

She sought refuge by sleeping with sleepy men
and by drinking although she was already drunk.
And now that her bed is unoccupied
and her stomach pumped and her heart not so heavy,
she wishes to help hold me up.

But I have realized that I don't need her help.
I don't need the help of someone who
wishes only to help those who can help her.

I told her I loved her
because it seemed an awfully grand thing to say.

I have everything I could ask for.
I'm white, straight and I hail from a lower-middle class household.
So why do I lay in bed and wallow in self pity when everything I could ever ask for sits right in front of me.
I have enough money to buy all the drugs I need and if I run out I can steal my mothers medication and sell it (I've never been a fan of amphetamines.)
I have two or three girls who take their clothes off and kiss my chest without me asking them too,
and I have friends who pick me up whenever I fall down,
so why do I never stop whining?
Why can I never feel fulfilled?
Numerous pairs of lips feed mine owns lust.
Yellow powder finds its way into my nasal cavity,
and plenty of ***** rests cozily in my stomach,
and plenty of chances to better myself fly by,
so what am I looking for?

Someday,
I'll have peace.

I know I will,
this can't go on forever.

I'm destined to write country music.
My writings are more or less about girls and intoxication anyway.
So change drugs to beer, girls to honeys and throw in a truck, a dog, and lots of guns and you have it.

It wouldn't be so bad either, hell I could even live the lifestyle. Find a cute southern lady, have a faithful hunting dog  and live under the mountains.

If I had a cigarette
for every time a teacher, parent, or loved one told me I was worthless,
I'd have enough cigarettes
to clear my head.

And that's it,
that's all I need to do.
Maybe if I could clear my head and get some ******* sleep I could stop being so worthless.
Just give me a break, and something to distort reality and I'll be fine.

Friends have often asked me what's my drug of choice.
They say they've seen me ******, tweaking, drunk, numb, but they can't tell which I enjoy most.
My answer hasn't changed since I started using.
My answer simply remains: anything that gets me high.
Anything that allows me to think in a different way,
anything that mercifully allows me to not think is my drug of choice.

I'm sick, I have a disease, but I don't need your help.
I don't sleep or eat, but I don't need your help.

the easiest way to tell another of anxiety
is to simply say that it interrupts.

it interrupts your life,
gets in the way of love
and laughter.

Just like a well placed hyphen - anxiety interrupts

In the sky there is a lonely star,
and in my heart there is a starless sky.

With the help of friends and methamphetamines
its been forty-eight hours since I've slept
but I am not tired.

Last night I laid awake on a lovely boy's couch
thinking of the moments we spent together
and I couldn't help but replay them in my brain
over and over,
hoping beyond hope for sleep
and you to share it with.

I guess I didn't see your scars,
blame it on the lighting or the beer,
but I knew they were there.
As my hands felt their way across your beautiful landscape,
I took special care not to rest them upon the raised, pink lines,
not wanting you, for even a moment,
to think the thoughts you thought when you created them.

I would tear my skin wide open,
stretch it across all the seas seven hundred times,
if it meant a single, tiny scratch would never find it's way onto your body with the guidance of your hand, the guidance of your starless night sky of a heart.

I know you can see that I'm angry.
You can see it in my eyes,
hear it in my words,
and feel it in my touch.
Sure, I'm angry because you rejected me,
are continuing to reject me.
No, I'm not angry at you,
how could I be.
I'm angry at myself.
I have nothing to offer you,
I'm broke, unemployed, addicted.
I don't have a car, or good looks.
I don't have a big house, or presents to give you.

But I have dreams and a heart that I'm begging you to take.

It is all that I can give to you that you do not already have.

I guess this could be a romantic poem
but I quit smoking a week ago,
and a poem ain't romantic unless the poet is sitting alone, in the cold, smoking a cigarette and wishing his memories of her could burn with the cigarette. Which is, coincidentally, the last cigarette in his pack.
And besides, my insides have been feeling more hollow than ever, and a poem is only romantic if the writer is feeling romantic.

But I remember, about two weeks ago, not wanting to be trapped in the confines of these blank white walls, I went for a little walk. It was cold and I was smoking the last cigarette in my pack.
My eyes chances upon the stars and a deep unrest fell within my stomach. I thought of you, as I had been often doing, as I always do when I look at the stars. Not desiring life, and only wishing to sleep forever, I began walking home.
I crushed the cigarette under my boot and wished I could do the same with the small part of my heart that you still mercilessly hold.

I try not to paint it in a pretty light because there is nothing pretty about it.

It is strong and it is beautiful and it will knock you on your *** but it is not pretty.

It is black and cold and poisonous, and it practices it's art with extreme prejudice.

Whether you say its your last time or whether you say nothing, you are lying to yourself.

******, the dark mistress, whom I fly towards like a moth to a light on a dark night.

******, the cunning sorcerer, who has caught  me under his deadly spell.

I am not powerless to my addiction.
No, I am wrong, it is not MY addiction, I am the addictions user. But I will break free. Jeremy Freeman, the fastest gun west of the Sierra Nevadas.

Imagine there's a vitamin you can take that makes you feel euphoric and free of pain and any thoughts other than warmth. Imagine that the vitamin's effects will wear off rather quickly. Imagine the vitamin is rather costly. Imagine after weeks of taking the vitamin you begin to notice that the good feelings it gave you are no longer present and you are only taking the vitamin so you won't feel sick and cold and alone and depressed. Imagine the vitamin is making you steal money from your mother's purse to buy more. Imagine the vitamin is making you hold up your local corner store. Imagine you only desire the company of the vitamin, your friends and family no longer matter. Imagine being done with the vitamin but knowing that the vitamin is not done with you, not until it has destroyed every meaningful relationship in your life, ****** your soul dry and killed you.

Now, you are offered a choice: this imaginary vitamin, or your life.

Choose your life, choose your friends, choose football in the street, choose walks in the park with your sister but whatever you do, don't choose ******.

Although my eyes were on the movie screen I could not help but watch you.
I noticed every shift of position, every tap of your foot, every blink in your eyes, and every licking of your lips.
I noticed when your mouth curled into a smile and when your hands clutched your shirt.

Although my body was occupied drinking half bitter coffee my mind was transposed onto the image of us I had swiftly conjured up in my own head.
    
Although
my bed will only have me in it tonight, my fingers will be running through your hair and down your spine. My legs will intertwined with yours and our hearts shall beat in time to the flowing of a poem.

The splitting of years was spent in a small room with a lovely group of nine people, surrounded by smoke and the sounds of the nineties.
Elena, with her laughter infused with gold.
Liam, with his thick dark curls.
Fritz, with his polite disregard.
Jonah, with his Iron Maiden shirt.
Kelly, with her eyes of nature.
Hannah, with quite understanding.
Erin, with her love of all things beautiful.
Dylan, with his smile of a deep purple.
Dennis, with his acid fried heart, still beating with love.

Beautiful people and beautiful dreams.
Here's to a beautiful year.

How sad it is to me,
that those with the most beautiful hearts find themselves empty.
That those with the loveliest faces find themselves resembling dirt.
That those with the softest skin cut into themselves.

It was a victory really,
leaving this town, if only for a few days.

The drive was long, seven hours long,
but it was fun, an ounce of *** fun.

****** and in the dark
we set our tent up next to the beach.

When the moon rose and the waves grew louder
we opened our bags and procured brown mushrooms, which we ate.
A mile down the beach the mushrooms took effect
and I looked up at the stars
to find them looking back at me,
and it felt as if nature slapped me in the face
and I had to sit down.

We continued on,
stumbling and laughing and pointing at all the beautiful things we saw.
After a few hours, my brain took me in a direction I was not prepared to go.
You see, a beautiful girl appeared in my mind,
and I wanted nothing more than for her to spark the gas in my chest,
and allow me to shoot up into the stars,
the stars we have so often talked about.

But I could not feel her warmth,
and I could not touch her skin,
and I could not see her eyes.
And so I sat,
swimming in my mind,
observing burning cigarette after burning cigarette,
the smoking flowing in one ear
and out the other,
changed,
woven into intricate patterns.

Everything was beautiful,
and she was not there.

I had been sober for three days
and I had not seen you for three days
but tonight I took
five times the recommended dose of hydrocodene (they always were my favorite)
and I looked at old pictures of you for three hours (you always were my favorite)

If I hold the blankets close to my body,
and close my eyes,
with enough imagination and yearning,
I can feel your hands on my body,
your lips on my neck,
and your legs intertwined with mine.

Your parents hung mistletoe.
And we obliged to the tradition.

Your lips screamed lust
louder than my head begged reason.

I want you pale and naked,
hips thrusting towards mine.
I want you on top of me
my hands on your *******.

The sunlight shines,
and the sun does set.
All I want is you
playing with my hair.

It's been a few weeks.
And it'll be a few more,
before that lovely girl
comes knocking at my door.

I am a patient boy,
I'll wait and I'll wait and I'll wait
for you.

Rap ah tat tat,
and rap ah tat tat,
please tell me when
my baby will be back.

Tick ah tick tock
and tick ah tick tock,
I long for the day
when I don't dread the tick of a clock.

The mere idea of your person
is a tonic, potent enough to intoxicate.
And intoxicated I will be
as long as your words
roll of your lips
and ring in my ears.
It's hard to say
but it's easy to feel:
all I want is you
and all I need is a chance.

A connection made is a chance for it to fail,
and some thing never loving is better
than taking the chance of losing love.
I could not disagree with these people more.
Perhaps they have never met someone like you
and perhaps they will never.
Perhaps they have never been drunk
off lust
or perhaps they refuse to alter their
state of consciousness enough
to allow lust to manifest itself
into a physical ache.
More than mental yearning,
I can feel it in my gut;
pulsing and pounding,
feeling its way to every corner of my body.

Perhaps the brandy is actually what's intoxicating me;
for every glass I drink
the pulsing becomes quicker,
the pounding becomes harder
and the feeling reaches parts of my body
I didn't know could feel.

Better grab some while you can.
Remember when you said "no, you ain't my man?"
Years from now you'll be alone,
and I'll be writing novels, my talent full grown.
A single tear from your eye will fall,
but don't even bother wasting time making a call.
You made a decision, now you gotta live by it,
and they'll be paying me to speak, tv and ****.
Someday, your boyfriend will by a book,
he'll read you one line from it and you'll know its me without even a look.
You have a man, he's on your arm,
when you see my name on the shelves, I'll be long gone.
You'll realize what you had,
but you threw it all away, you must've been mad.
Someday, you'll see that it's all true,
no need to debate, I'm the best at what I do.

You might be thinking "****, this boy's arrogant"
but you gotta fake it 'till you make it and then a little more.
But for now, I'll sell my **** to buy drugs
and when I'm all out of **** I'll start stealing
and when I've stolen everything, I'll start earn it.
And when I've earned the highest accolades
I'll just smile
because I told you so,
and you told him he was the one.

Someday you'll cry because there won't be a sunrise,
and you'll realize the mistake you've made.
I may be a loser ****** right now,
but the next bump will be last
just like the one I blew five minutes ago
just like the first time I ever tried it a high school bathroom
just like every bump in between.

On the first day I noticed nothing but your hair.
How it caught the sunlight and reflected it tenfold.
How it swayed around your neck.

On the second day I noticed nothing but your lips.
How they individually felt between my teeth.
How they left marks upon my neck and thighs.

On the third day I noticed nothing but your mouth.
How the words flowed out, powerful as an ocean.
How your teeth would bite me ear, drawing blood.

On the fourth day I noticed nothing but your hands.
How they held mine, always eager to calm them.
How they pulled the needle out of your arm, quivering.

On the fifth day I noticed nothing but your legs.
How they powerfully allowed you to stride great lengths.
How they were ever in motion, even in your deepest parts of sleep.

On the day sixth I noticed nothing but collarbones.
How I wanted nothing more but to crawl in to them and rest.
How I could gently **** on them, causing your whole body to palpitate.

On the seventh day and for years since I have noticed nothing but each individual hair on your body.
They each have a name, Kassandra, Jared, Peter, Ryan, Falyn, Jacob, Hammed, Caroline, Audrey, Yo-Landi, Diane, Khajjitt, Daralyn, forever and ever and ever.

On the last day I noticed how I never noticed your eyes.
But you were gone,
and I could not tell you what color they are.

The Outlaw Josey Wales doesn't shoot so much anymore,
he has nothing to shoot at.

The sun blazes and it blazes and it burns all those under it
with extreme prejudice.

From the Alpha to the Omega the teeth of wolves are sharp
and they tear through flesh with such disregard.

Jack Kerouac is still writing, the ink still rolls from his pen on to paper
but now, thankfully, nobody knocks on his door.

Death will come once, and death will come for all,
and I'm sure when death comes, I will be cold
and all alone.

It's hard,
but I'll be able to accept it after a few more shots,
a couple more hits,
and maybe a line,
but as I am in a semi sober state
it is hard to believe.

Hard to believe that you chose him over me,
hard to believe you swoon around him,
and don't bat an eyelash at me.
It's hard to believe he's my best friend
and I'm letting him do this.

Be careful sharing your heart with me.
I fall in love with those who open up.
Like a levee breaking
my love with flood in to your heart.

It will be beautiful and it will be fierce
and the currents will be of a Biblical magnitude.
So please be careful;
you're far too pretty to hurt.

We came
together,
joined at the hips
and the lips.

With our words we shared stories
and with our mouths
we opened up to each other.

We were aware of each other
for quite some time,
at least me of you,
but we shared only a few
memories
and only two
nights.

One was spent in the cold.
On a couch,
with alcohol
and sweat
and nicotine
and only one blanket,
but you had me to keep you warm,
and you kept me plenty warm.
You left early in the morning,
and I kissed you before you left.
I tried to go back to sleep,
but it's hard to sleep when you're smiling.

The second time was warm,
in a bed,
with marijuana
and nicotine
and my best friend in the next room.
We kissed
and we kissed
and we kissed
and we slept
and then we kissed some more
and in the morning it was my turn to leave early,
but you kissed me before I left
and I hope you were able to sleep.

You're out of sight
but not out of mind.

I don't know what I'm doing.
I'm not sure what I'm thinking.
I do know that,
Just like the moon,
I will die cold and all alone.

God forgives us our trespasses.
Friends are not so easy.
Family is not so easy.
I don't know what's going to happen,
and even though I get this feeling often,
it is still quite unsettling.

The sun is setting earlier than it did yesterday,
and you look nicer than you did yesterday,
and I think I love you more than I did yesterday,
and I'm having more doubts than I did yesterday.

I was always a needle kind of ******.
My friends thought I was crazy, and I suppose I was.
They say to take baby steps,
but addiction never works like they say it should, does it?
I went from *** to pills to blow to needles just like that.

It was nice though,
seeing how I've always been a fan of instant gratification.
Tie the knot, heat the junk, wet the cotton, **** it up, slap the veins, stick it in, get high.
Easy as pie, nothing can be simpler.
Nothing could be more complicated.
I've been home for ten minutes,
and I promised myself this score would last me through the week.
I'll be happy if it lasts the night.

My track marks were starting to fade,
due in part to probation,
and also in part to the love I've been surrounded with.
Who needs to shoot up when you have people to love you?
Me.
A ******.
A loser.

I would like a million things,
and a million more,
but why would I want things,
when I can score.
Nothing could be simpler.
Nothing could be more complicated.

I'll write about you
for as long as I want.
Unlike these
drugs
I am powerless to
I can quit you.

And so I will write about you until you love me
and I will continue to write about you until you don't.
Because everything fades, and everything dies,
and just like the spring,
your love will fade,
if it blossoms at all.

I am
confused.

It isn't the first
time.
And it won't be the
last.

Would it be too brazen
for
me to say
it.

I feel that it
would
be slightly out of
place
for me to say
it.

But I like '
you.
And nothing can change
the
way I feel right
now.
Except maybe a
cigarette
and a hundred
more,
and also a
kiss
and a thousand
more.

If you were to call
and say
"Let's get out of here"
Baby, I'd be gone.

If we
were to hop on a train
the tracks could never
be too long.

If we
were to sit atop a hill
and kiss, my only wish
would be to never see the setting sun.

Whether it's scientifically proven or not,
I know it to be true;
the best cure for a hangover
is more *****.

A noise woke me up.
Stumbling through the empty house I
struggled to find it.
It was odd,
seemingly everywhere I went it got louder and louder;
this thumping, pulsing, rapturous noise.
Giving up,
I reached for the half full bottle (the deciding factor to a bottle being half full or half empty is not the attitude of the drinker but the contents contained in said bottle) of *****,
took a swig,
chased it with orange juice,
took a swig,
chased it with orange juice,
etc.,
etc.,
etc.,
and so I began this day as I had ended the last one.

In a glorious and raging state of mind I stumbled...
(no, I've already used that)
... I fell down the stairs and watched the sun as it climbed and climbed
and I'm not sure how long I lay sprawled on the wet November grass
but I know how long I thought of you,
and I know how long I've been thinking of you
and I've been thinking of you for days.

Whisper softly,
I'm all ears.
Kiss my neck
and baby, I'm yours.

Stay inside,
a little longer.
We have yet
to satisfy our hunger.

I can't stop
and take time to think.
No, it ain't my nature,
would you like a drink?

Just sit back
and rewind
to all the nights
when you were mine.

With your mouth
you allowed me to feel your love.

With your teeth
you left your mark upon my collarbone.

With our legs
we ran through the corridors.

With our hips
we became one, if only for a night.

With your lungs
you sang a song to me, never to be repeated.

With my ears
I listened attentively, never to miss a beat.