she said: oh lover hold me i am afraid and i am small,
there's nothing that can keep me here i think that i might fall.
she wrapped her arms around his neck and held on for dear life,
he crumbled like old stone and he felt sharper than a knife.
without one to hold she wandered off alone,
his memory is nothing more than a body without a bone.

Sublime, subtle, soft.
When I saw your body for the first time,
I realised how you were never fine,
I saw how many battles you fought,

On your arms,
Your thighs,
Your sides,
Your lovely sides.

And I loved you more for every single mark that you felt burdened your beautiful body,

The perfection in your skin complexion and the paleness of you, only made me want to hold you closer to warm you.

And let nothing harm you, not anything, not even yourself.

Never again.

I've got the world's best kept secret
locked in 2 AM screenshots--
her late night musings over a crusty joint, a crushed pill,
or some ***** cigarettes.

She sends me her thoughts,
fears,
anxieties,
insecurities--

at her most vulnerable,
absolutely the most beautiful.

Her anguish stressed in the digital scroll
(though she doesn't like Kerouac, I let her borrow my copy),
her stained fingers mashing all their hurt and nicotine
into the keyboard--

and her pen aches and her paper stains
with the unrequited love she empathizes with
in the somber pop punk songs that explode from the stereo
she sings loudly on cold and lonely night drives
(I shiver in her passenger seat).

And she made for me the greatest of mixtapes,
her holy scrawl expounding upon a dull grey donut-shaped
slowly fading form of intimacy,
a blank CD--

"This mix is a good time"

and when I jammed it into my car stereo I was illuminated.

She is so cool, she is so punk,
and in her clandestine drugstore car charger thefts,
broken poems,
impalpable aesthetic,
impeccable music taste,
illuminated or even further obfuscated drug trips--

I have the world's best kept secret,
and more than anything, I wish to share it with you--

                                     so she can make someone another mixtape.

her fingers dance
over flower petals.

the pinkish hue
slowly turning to red.

as the movement quickens,
her digits dampen.

the soft caressing
escalating to furious fondling.

the sheen of her skin
is bright from the sweat.

angelic moans escape her lips,
and her back arches.

the ****** of the story-
after all, this is what she came for.

how can what feels so heavenly
be considered so unholy?

It was the day that you told me that I'm a liar,
that I have chosen to build up my falsities on the bones of people more truthful than me,
That I don't like myself enough to look into my reflection,
It was the day that I felt my bones shaking beneath the surface,
My veins turned into train tracks and I let the truth barrel its way through,
Now I'm a tourist under my own skin,
I no longer hide behind the missteps of other people,
And I see what I have done without judgement,
under a blanket of snow, in the winter waiting on the sun to defrost
and grow every bit of me new again

The pursuit of
oneness-
togetherness-
humanity-
is in the creation of something
for
everyone
and
everything.
the possibilities are endless
reach to where the individual creations intersect one another,
there you'll find a holy matrimony of pure unity.
the pulse that you feel when the ocean's current syncs with your heartbeat-
like the moon making love to the cave of your soul where you keep your chained desires of expression on hold for the moment when you finally feel the push of something that cannot be touched, seen, or controlled
free.
expression.