I sit, far from still, not listening as her perfectly placed moans hang in the air, tormenting my ears with her pain.
Lavender pillows envelop me as the sweet perfume drips into my lungs, streaming through my body with every new breath
This is intoxication. I feel the air around me in my veins, my fingers, my legs, my heart. I will never accept anywhere else again, this is it. This is home.
May I escape the other moments in my life. I tried to forget and for three years I lived in blissful silence. Now these words creep back in the lonely moments, during the deepest dreams of the night and in the loudest moments of the days.
I drank more than my weight and collapsed under the weight of my own thoughts, imagining you looming over me I fell into tortured nightmares and remained pinned to the feverish, sweaty cocoon.
I smoked to fill my lungs with lighter air, I wanted to float up towards that blue moon and let her cradle me softly, cushioning the hurt in my head. Instead my lungs went cold and my brain was infused with ice. I could feel my head turning to stone and the weight on my shoulders suddenly became real, my knees buckling under the true weight of my sins.
How can I repent for something over which I had no control?

My bad
sorry
words so hollow
even if you mean it
what's done is done
will they seek recompense
we can start a feud
can always run
how far is far enough
hope I know it
when I see it.

Eleven thousand
            three hundred
     sixty one miles away
in a place   I’ve never been,
     you are thinking
          of all the places
you have never   been
     or haven’t   been,
some for seasons,
          some for years.

A Paris   pomegranate   sunrise
     from the Pont des Arts,
     bright     colours     shimmying
at the   pulse   of romance.

The   blood   cell   rush   of Shibuya,
   Tokyo at night among
a river of     strange symbols,
   blinking   TV   screens.
  
Prague dredged in frost,
   feet-chatter   on cobbles
          past the Jan Hus memorial
under a   cool   periwinkle sky.

Glossy tulips in Bilbao,
   metallic curves,
   trill   of   syllables
     by the teal Nervión.

I think of you,          far away,
   same planet, different   spot,
the future washing towards us
   full of scrambled   images
and     white     noise,
a trickle of hope at your   toes,
   through my screen.

There is something in the play of your eyes
A mischievous glint
A promise of laughter
A whisper of guilt
A threat of tears

Something in the way you move
Like you could be diving into the perfect somersault
Or in front of a bus
Every movement
Like it could be your last

Something in the quiet of your breathing
On nights when we shared the same bed
Something about how you reached for my hand
Even in sleep, present
Peaceful yet turbulent
Your body couldn't stay still.
Even in unconsciousness, restlessness took you from bed
To roam the house at night

More and less
The Paradox

Potential.
Enough to graze your fingertips across
The kind that enduces goosebumps
A soft weight dangling from your limbs
A nauseousness pumping adrenaline into your circuits
The Almost.

And now it's over.
The precipice,
The "one ill-timed-slip" into seduction,
The conscious choice to stay on the cliff
To not tumble into selfish indulgence,
This once-favored hang out, gone.
Nothing but a meadow,
Grassy, blooming, safe.

The adrenaline, the temptation, the choice
Vanished.
Nothing but a humid breeze to imply movement
A hint that something was once here, before.

And now, just another memory.
Another secret.

“You know if reality was just a wee bit more interesting, I might take Sobriety out on a date.”

“Depression is like my ***** laundry, always seem to have some hanging around.”

“Many who seek like not what they find, then they seek solace by acting blind.”

“Inside every old poet is a child, and inside every young poet is an old man.”

“To give a rose, is the deepest of desires that whom receives the rose, appreciates both the rose and the beauty of giving of the rose. “

“There is nothing worse, than being sentenced to death by ones self “

“The more tormented the soul, the more enticing the poetry.”

“Hillary Clinton, I did not have *** with my email server!”

Speak from the heart. The tip of the tongue.
Fly off the cuff, The hip of your gun.
Set scenes apart, a trip to the sun.
Getting High on the huff, the gifting of love.

Speak from the heart, easier said then done.
Treat it like art, Feeding the dread with glum.
Speak from the heart, easier said then done.
Freezing at start, leading the dead with guns.