Sometimes I wake up to
spatial tension
and awkward sting,
where there are fractions of
unwanted proteins and
dripping enzymes.
Sometimes I wake up to
obsidian corpuscles
of unknown origin
and encounters with
sentiment-shakers,
dream-eaters,
and rafter-rattlers.
Sometimes it is as simple as
dripping beige,
intangible amber,
and cold, cold, blue.
Sometimes I wake up
to nothing, too.

It does not matter that it is me.
Although I look for you in everyone I see.

I've got my eyes slighty squinted,
as we spin round on a carnival ride.
I can almost smell the ocean from here,
as it washes in with the tide.

I can feel the dangling of my untied shoelaces,
and I can see people's faces
blurring with the bright colours of their clothes.
I am wearing my light grey dress,
and we are both laughing,
our hair is tangling together in a ginger and blonde mess.

I catch a glare of sunlight in my eyes,
so I close them and watch purple and green patterns dance
against the darkness of my eyelids,
I open them to realize that
no longer are we kids.

We are in the back seat of your car,
it's 2 AM and it's raining outside,
no longer are we on the carnival ride.
You try to tickle me in a flirtatious way,
and when I say I have to leave,
you beg me to stay.
I say goodnight,
and hug you tight.

Then,
Slowly,
I bring my face closer to yours,
and kiss you gently.

You kiss me back.
Once,
Twice,
and again.
Our lips begin to dance together,
Waltzing to the rhythm of the rain.

The scent of your skin fills my lungs,
and it adds a sensual feeling
to the embracement of our tongues.

Your hand slips beneath my shirt
as I pull yours off,
it feels like my heart is free of all its hurt.
Wandering hands in the darkness of night,
my eyes are fixated on you,
admiring your body in flickering streetlight.

Your breathing becomes shallow,
and I feel like you want me,
only me.
But I know now that it's just...
Lust.

There is a cloud that loves
to sleep between
comprehension and
your ears.

Twirl your tastebuds —
let me taste your
modal schwa
your vellum staining
truth or dare,
let me down
your feather-quill;
your quenching quantum
quaking.

You will never feel
what I felt. You will never
sit beside yourself.

I am too much of everything
and somehow
not enough of anything.

I sleep too late,
put too much sugar in my coffee,
have too many shoes,
say too many things,
and hold on for much too long.

I am a mixture of the things I want and need,
the things that mean nothing and everything.
I am passionate about many unimportant things
and woefully apathetic about the issues that truly matter.

I fall in love 3 times a day
and often forget to brush my hair.
I am too loud
and I talk too much
and I have too many opinions about things
I know nothing about.

I romanticize people and books,
foreign countries and fictional characters
to the point where they may all be
figments of my imagination.

I am entirely made up
of quotes and song lyrics,
2am phone calls and long lost dust jackets
from books I know better
than my own soul.

I do not know answers
to questions like
where,
or when,
or how,
but I know
with some certainty,
that I am too much for you.