Pulling, tugging, grasping –
     all to be closer to you.
Two hearts beating, and lungs breathing deeply –
     all in beautiful unison.
'This is one of those moments,' he says
     I tug his ear as he speaks to me,
    an attempt to commit to memory every inch of his body.
'When I can't believe,'
     I go on squeezing him,
    filling all of the ridges created by my bone structure
    with his torso's curves-
     They are warm to the touch.
'How much I love you.'
    I push the tip of my nose into the nook under his chin
    and attempt to breathe in his beauty.

The sun has set, and my side of the world has all fallen into dreams.
I am lying here, naked, a conglomeration of bones with skin pulled taut over them.
I feel as if I am nothing more, and my eyes turn into puddles.
It is at this time that my internal storm arrives.
My pain is without subject, and my tears without provocation –
I guess existing in this world is enough.
My lungs lust for the ability to scream, to shriek until they all notice,
but the feeling is suppressed again and again.

Breaths pushed in and out of my body – I can’t breathe,
I can’t breathe.
Intermission between inhalations shortens, and my knees curl to my chest
as my entire body trembles  under the weight of that which I cannot identify.

“You are sad every night,” he says.
Yes, I am, for the night is when I am forced to spend time with myself.
Lying here, my skin is asking to be clawed off of my body
and hopefully the imperfections will go with it.
Every word I have uttered filters through my mind, and every word is wrong.
With the façade of my successful existence now sprawled out on the floor next to my bed,
I lie on the mattress in emptiness.

The tears come like a flash flood, and I am overcome with anxieties of my inadequacy.
The shaking is my earthquake, an earthquake that is unending.
But, I’m not supposed to be feeling this way again.
I suppose I don’t deserve anything better.

A sanctuary, your features have found the warm tranquility of my skin
The soft touch of your lips, and the squeeze of your embrace
entrance me with shivers;  this is the only bona fide calm I ever encounter.
The beautiful sensation of your breath as it tickles my collarbone,
and the simultaneous movement of our two bodies;
I engage in the exquisite process of soaking in your persona as you absorb my own.

The brush of your vanilla-chapstick lips on mine releases a butterfly cage in my stomach –
butterflies of cherry red and periwinkle blue,
a momentary lapse in their usual shades of black.
The pressure of your body resting on mine, pulling closer and closer
ceases the trembling stutters of my lungs’ perpetual struggle
to breathe under the weight of the world.

We become immersed in our reverie of each other,
and I synchronize the patterns of my breath to match yours.
This beautiful symphony of affection that is your nose buried in the crook of my neck  
leads me to finally venture to define the word love –  
It is you, in between my chin and my collarbone.

The needle drops, and
there is a light pull
on a lover's hand

The needle lifts to rest once again
Fingers brush, not sure
if they are permanent

A multiplicity of canva
Each being filled
With a lover's new muse

The needle drops
Fingers brush, never
To touch again

When I look at you,
I am transported to another state of being.
Another time, another place –
a consciousness in which I am unconscious
of everything but you.
I want my eyes to wander along every inch of your body
and commit it to memory.

Memory, memory, yes, to memory.
I would rather rid the ocean of its waves
than forget the curve of your spine.
I want the freckles decorating your cheekbone and neck
to be the stars in my internal sky.
My mind is the canvas;
you are the painter.
Be an impressionist painter,
not because it has to be beautiful
but because it has to leave an impression.

Once the garments are put on
It means the world to take them off
To be naked is a figment of the population's imagination
A demonstration of the incarceration of our figures
What was naked before we covered up?
I cannot decide if these rags that I wear
are a bomb shelter or a prison cell,
Either way I am trapped inside of myself.
It is a terrifying place to dwell and maybe
that is why I should not expose my body.
The indecency of telling me
that the most natural thing I can show you is indecent;
we are hypocrites.

i'm not sure
but i think
that i think too much
but am i overthinking that too?

is it okay if
i see but do not look
for fear of something
that might send a shock wave
through my pupils
and into my mind?

is it okay if
i hear the world
but my brain filters it out
because i am too busy
listening to my own thoughts?

i am not alone
people surround and smother me
so is it possible
that i am lonely?

so many questions
yet so little time
to find answers

then again
who needs answers now
when the intellectual marbles
will inevitably be lost
and the answers with them

thoughts swarm without purpose
in and out of my head
and the taste of new wisdoms
overwhelms the tastebuds of my intellect
i am lost
high on the ultimate ecstasy of knowledge

i am no longer
viewing the world
the world is viewing me
for being inquisitive
in a world so full of certainty