It's been raining for months and I can't turn the faucet off – which reminds me: the sea is yours if you want it, and you don't have to be afraid of a little rainwater anymore. When you walk to your car with your shoes off and most of your sanity folded in your jeans, when your feet slap against puddles and you are remembering that you left your jacket on the doorknob, don't ever wonder if I will awaken suddenly, crying because you never stayed long enough for me to write that song to the beat of your hesitant pulse. Your car, evidently can take you farther than my hands can, but no road leading to your house and no street lamp mocking you silently knows that I hang pearls on the threads of your sanity and my stairs groan loudest when you are trying to leave quietly. If you turn around now – if you run back and tell me that you want to be sky to me and nothing else, then I will let you, as long as you promise to bleed the next eighty thousand sunrises; I will stop mentioning you to forests and looking for you in satellites and in smoldering coals, if you promise to murmur my name when the horizon is stretching and prostrating itself across the late evening. I will tell you where the sun goes when the Atlantic swallows her whole, if you tell me about the streams of cirrus clouds backing up your bloodstream. And I never ask you to search for the wildfires under my shirt again, if you give me all of the starlight under yours.

His favorite part?
It feels like he's done everything.
Every.
*******.
thing.
And nothing seems to be doing jack

The silence is interwoven, locking out
All that he needs so sincerely.

There's just anger brewing in the black ***
And the kettle's there too... somewhere

Your hands were like summer

But your heart was pure winter

Spring, that whose every year is its last
and whose death always is the promise of its birth:

you pink between,

you softly to part,

you to come of flowers lathered,

you are a mystery.A cute curving mystery,
of slightly undeath.

a curt cutting mystery,
of increasing unhealth.

you're whose *** the mound of wreaking,
the confluence of hips,
and the pourn of roses, gardens.

send a search party to find
reasoning for my existence.

when you’re with that girl
or any girl really
and she’s sitting on top of you
or kneeling just below
and she’s in the middle of some routine
some ritual
and you wonder if she’s trying something new
or if this has proven successful in the past
the result of numerous carefully considered scientific studies
she breaks
bends
and lies still
breathless
as if she’s forgotten her lines

A good bottle
of red wine
gets me
every time