The love we made was enervating,
you rancorous pooch!
I cannot suppress my deleterious desires!
Oh! How I hold your face in my disdainful mind!
When I was waiting to be vindicated from your legal pressings,
upon the cold, stone floor of my cell, I wrote an anecdote
of the pain you caused in my chest
(with that knife).
Mundane human, you posses spurious desires!
You have given me false hope,
which has led to many adversities!
I may have been impetuous to leap upon you with that knife,
but you were the one who walked away unharmed.
Let us proceed with our impetuous plans...
x x suicide pact
will write later

I do not want to hear the word ‘love’ ever again
but I do wish to see you at noon
thirty blocks away from reality
with the sun printed like warm coffee stains across your face
the light cutting through that little cafe window
tinny radio music and cloth napkins
and a wind to slap the hanging sign
to make us curl up on the bench,
imagining the cold.

We are a white children
of clouds
of sand
of carving words
that shape the sands we walk upon
and cannot judge one slip from another
at times
love is expressed through
the crudest terms
and so we divide,
define
and in each mind
rest the chicken bones of the last meal
press the prickly matter into the damp soil
where it will be forgotten.

The glasses in this restaurant
are spotted with finger-oil
and when held up to the sun,
you can see a misty cloud trapped within them,
just barely holding back the intoxicating light.

The papers in this restaurant-  a collection of unpaid bills and torn menus, are painted with the sweat of the workers, wilted by the heat, and wait to be thrown to the fire.
When held up to the sun,
you can see each splatter of grease and each drizzle of spit together as Picasso's inspiration,
unyielding to the light, whispering yes to each piercing ray.

The people in this restaurant
are spotted with needle-ink
and when held up to the sun,
you can almost see a nest of organs through their papery skin,
which invite the light to seep, seep in.

But the glasses, and the papers, and the people stay, planted on the table, or the swivel chairs, or the rotten floor.  The light waits outside.

I just want you
to sit on this bench
next to me

I just want to feel
your side sitting next to mine
sharing the warmth
on a cold december night

I want to hear you say your thoughts
straight up, no filter
on what has been bothering you
what has made your brow
all the more furrowed

I want you to say more than your troubles
I want to hear your inspirations
what makes you cry
and laugh
and think, most of all, think
think about the stars and how they effect us
and when you lean close to tell me about the stars
I just want our necks to somehow touch
for a second
one short second
just one

I want your hand to settle beside mine
the fingers barely touching

I just want to hear your voice
calm and confident
but if I do,
I’m not sure if I’ll be able
to say anything back

my throat will seal up
and my tongue will become heavy as wet plaster
and will stick to the roof of my mouth
unable to respond
to even a carefree, “the stars are out”

while we stare up at the glow-in-the-dark stickers
pasted on a the ceiling
it’ll be so dark
we won’t be able to see each other
just the green stars

and maybe our lips will brush by
only
fully
touch
for a second
one short second
just one
one

soft and sudden like a pea-dose of splattered paint.

Early in the day,
when the sun is still lounging in its bed of clouds
and the moon is casting blue-black light
preparing to add rouge to its love’s fair skin for a finally that hasn’t arrived,
I find hair stuck to my neck
leaving thin ribbons across my cheeks,
to my collar bone

While the moon is flamboyant,
adding a screaming red
to the awakening dawn
the sun is here before her time,
I peel the strands away
and rub at the empty river beds left

The self-conscious sky is the color of beets now,
and the moon leaves,
his work is finished,
he can retire

The blush drains out of the sky’s face,
blue remains  

I close my eyes
and peel back the dawn.

Blush comes back and drains again
the moon comes from the west
black and blue,
light made for pale-skinned beings.

The sun is still biding her time,
she knows the world wakes to her,
not the dreamy shadow planet
who doesn’t even have an atmosphere

I keep the night in my subconscious,
until the curtains are swept back-
exposing the thin skin of my lids to glaring light-
filling my eyes with brilliant orange.

My purple sunrise is deeper than yours
I dream in the cracks you cover with clay
the black in my pupils holds in more light
but your bleached white walls lead to my decay.

My grass is thicker,
my blue is stronger
when I eat from the fruit there's more teeth in my bite.
Can you taste the juice?
Feel it dribble down your shirt?
That's the stream in my forest
by my carpet of dirt.

It's written in ink
smeared, still legible
that I hold a soul within these bars of bone
light and soft like cooling butter

It's fierce, and it sings, and doesn't understand
the reasons for pain in this drying, Eden-land.