dear boy
this is a love poem to the evening we met-
not to you
because love is a four-letter word that I cannot use against you yet
I was texting while biking
perpetually late
you were sitting outside the cafe
couldn’t find the door (somehow perfectly understandable)

I was thinking of how I would open up the conversation, carefully wrapped in the plastic seal of Tinder ambiguity.  We could be one of many things:
two strangers meeting
two serial killers
one serial killer, one victim
two humans
two aliens

We learned we both fell under the last title—  both aliens to Rhode Island
and Maine, our homeland

dear boy, this is a poem to myself, so I will not forget you,
you were such a gift that night, with eyes that were both kind and silly,
and I was so drawn to you as I drew you, wanted to capture the seconds of the night and how they etched themselves into our skin, every line of our bodies grows darker with age
sometimes I think about how wrinkles are just lines that grow onto our bodies like a sort of topography, and we perceive this as ugly

topography is ****, the way it undulates and defines a thing, such as a hill, rising and falling

the lines spreading out like frozen sonar

we didn’t have to go to the diner, but we did,
didn’t even eat anything, just each other’s time
and I wanted to stay there, and I wasn’t sure which I was more drawn to: the thought of us remaining

stay awake, tasting the musty morning breath-dust at the back of your throat,
rise like smoke, still half-senseless
so drawn to the blueness of the ****** day,
so blue the word loses its meaning
(there has to be another word for this color).

The stiff grass, waiting to be melted by sunrise,
the quality of the air, cold and rough in your lungs
is a boon to the eyes
The mist dissipates, everything can be seen through a portal of glass more polished than in the rusty dregs of the day, everything, everything.

I have two words.

Snow.

You fill my mind with the sort of rapture that comes from falling snow— the way you look up and it swirls down like cold petals.
There’s a wild wonderment from something so simple:
it transforms the stark nakedness of the earth; the dead forests
and empty fields become whole and alive again with the powder.

Bloom.

You made my winter unfurl itself like a magnolia tree, crackled branches, then  frenzied blossoms cutting up my line of vision, hiding the ugly.

cut your ring finger. delicately
taste the blood.
lick it off.

Does the flavor suit you?


Twist a handful of hair the way he might
and let it fall back against your neck

-- gently undo all of the actions he has done.

and kiss your own stomach, the way he did, the way it made you shiver out of what could best be described as a blend of ecstasy and anxiety,
how the very touch clung to you like heavy wet cotton,
how the moment permeated through you, held you, and for once, you knew what it meant to be sated

the moment still lives in your throat and is born again whenever you sing.

I am not a-
I am not a-
I am a red mess of what human kind doesn't need to see
the human heart doing a double beat
fingers too sweaty to snap
eyes that twitch in a foggy mist
I can not be quiet in my head
and so I talk to myself
I cannot be regarded as beautiful
unless you disregard the film of error
plastered over my worn-out soul

What’s in a life
that makes it feel tangible
-not moldable-
but legible at times, when
you’re so close, you can’t blink without swatting their cheek
and
so that you feel you can grasp their stress
and peel it away
like ducktape
with little nubbins of glue
like gossling fluff
left over
Whatever film that separates two souls
was put there for sanity or practicality
And I want to ask...
What is it like in your soul?
Is it disturbing  
or loving for me to ask?

He

Was first to my second
(instict)
gulp of air tasted like his breath

I had wrapped my arms around his
paper white t-shirt
his skin beneath was firm

we were like pasta boiling over
I wanted to slip my fingers through his teddy-bear hair
centemeters to my feet

his eyes were mine
quiverering with electricity-

he wrapped himself,
a shell around my frame
a core to his body that he
didn’t think was wild
until now

and it felt so good to know
all the people in the world
did not touch his mind while I mentioned
how we could be one step away from the term one tends to shy away from
in heaven-willing
love-rants like this

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.

Today
the gray in the sky
is as glorious as spittle  
against the Moaning Lisa.
(spit on me, she says)

The sky feels like this:
ancient batteries in that beat up fridge,
(nobody cares for these cheep cells, nobody cares for the pressing down ceiling)
(on a day like this, that makes me sink to my knees)
which compose the same sensation
as a cool wet stone
in my palm;

Why the mottled face, my sky?
(The stone is clammy in my fingers)
Why the wet that tugs and pulls
until the gray you sport is found in my eyes?

It will stay
pressing and bruising slow as chinese water torture
until I realize
the blue above is kissing
these clouds.

Then, the sun can be felt at the back of my throat,
warming me.

Stop-
the drumming of your thoughts,
the ticking of the anxiety,
(your head, why does it twist so sharply?)
and let this one idea resound in the abandoned highway
(click)
alone.

Like a shiver that warms,
(click, twist, snap)
as much as it acknowledges the presence of cool
let this idea *****
a neat pin-hole
in your bundle of cloth.

Hear this:
I need not know your past,
only what you can remember.

(click)

I need not know your crimes,
only what you regret.

Only
what you
can remember.

(click.... click)

Where, like a loving mother
can I sponge off the blood and grime?

Here, in this musty bathroom,
all I can see the thin layer of sweat,
the scrunched muscles in your face,
your hands,
and the way they interlock those sooty Legos together,
apart,
together.

Evelyn
you flew out with the day's wind
and the sparrows
were the only family
to see your mouth dry
in the buoyant moon

The flies
with their translucent wings
flew about your
open lips
catching particles of light
in their flaky, blue, gold, red, violet veins
upon their lovely wings
which graced their delicate black clothed bodies

They
were dressed for this
once-in-a-lifetime occasion
but not I,
in my red itchy face
and cotton gown

I took you by the hands
(my feet numb and covered in inky grass)
telling you things
only mother would care to hear
the unfiltered hiccups
and childish
wake-ups, and a simple
"close your mouth"

My father and uncle
took your sock-covered feet
and we lifted you,
took you to the light
which filled your mouth
we placed you in a stiff wooden chair

Your mouth closed then
and your eyes remained open
your crinkly hands dropped
settling into your lap
and for a moment
you were alive

Come again into the sea
let the salt sting your eyes
and cry your tears of joy
and seaweed tangle your feet
and sand, wash away with the tide
until you are as clean as a newborn
for you are born again

let the water soften your skin
and give you little wrinkles

Dive into the depths and peer at the mysteries below
come with me, for this I know
we belong in the waters wide
and swimming far, down low
push fault and fear aside
and with the days you’ll grow

Oh, come with me to laugh and blow bubbles to the surface where they’ll pop
like little orbs of mirth all innocent and sweet
for these are the sweets of the sea

and splash in the waves and sing melodies and laugh ‘till you can’t stop
like pure sunshine in our ears, immortal in our memories
and we can pretend to be immortal until we die

and breath in the clean air
and stare at fishes fair
and the unknown creatures rare

Come again into the sea
and dive deep down,
until all you can imagine is the water
surrounding you
becoming you
cleansing you
keeping you

Come again, for I am lonely,
and the water can be cold
I need another person
a warm body to love and hold  

and stay, for I know you’ll want to go
but don’t, please don’t
many did, so long ago

Dew 'neath the eyes
become teasing images that lack substance
but I am sightless
my home is black, colored only for those who bring their lanterns,
never shifting, but drifting
turning accidentally back,
and I, not the right degree drift,
find a face I'd thought I lost-

don't wind the clock
or leave the key
where I may see it

if you insist,
if I am your guest,
give me rooms covered in seaweed from the oceans coffin
where I may drift unharmed, untouched

your rooms,
scorched by the warm ice,
giving views to the otherlands,
where motionless green beasts ponder their actions,
filled with water,
yet never willing to give,
spiking those that dare,
those, desperate and dehydrated enough to dare..
those are for the wild,
who need pain to quench their need for adventure,
mules in a constantly shifting land

no, I want cool floors of laminaria,
they'll squelch beneath these pale feet of mine,
and, as I gather dew,
calm my feverish scalp

We've got an old way
of working things out
and an old life
(we are young, sister)
though you say we're young
(I never lie)
but how could we be
since that old dusty memory
is clear…. clear… clear
(ah, yes, you see we're young)

And I didn't say I didn't care
I just want to forget...
and would heaven
be at our door
if it never had happened
(Is that a question?)
well why did it happen?
just to us
(just to us, both of us)

When I am home
I get shivers
and cold feet
as they touch
where he had fallen
and you are out drinking
(I am always here)
as I am sinking
and the fat ugly droplets won't fall
they're weak things tugging at my scalp
if they fall, I can rest
(you sleep better than me)
I want them gone
but my skin is a cage is a desert
(darling, face it.  You have dry eyes and a messed-up conscience-)
and whatever tries to seep out
evaporates into nothingness
why had this happened to me?
(you mean us, you silly girl)

What can come from tragedy-
this is no blessing in disguise
(it was bound to happen)
and your eyes are that of an old man's
(our eyes.  Looked into the mirror recently?  I think not)
yes we are older than him now
headhunters gather strength in their victims
we gather age
(we are young, don't lie to us)
chained together by skin
(bound together is a better word)
invisible to the eyes of others
you sit, ghostlike in the bar
(I haven't had a drink in years!)
Sometimes coming back to the skin we share
you are my sister
my blind spot
(the intelligent side, come to think of it)
the dirt on my tongue
which I haven't found a way to spit out yet
you crunch under my teeth
(you are the dirt, the whiner, the pessimist
the man was a worthless criminal.
I saw him dreaming of us.
and I cannot digest his foul thoughts,
I knew him better than you
I saved our life.)

Hey.
I saw you
cutting yourself in your eyes
and shedding pain
wet drops
that stained your skin
leaving red trails of salt
marking you within
as something else

you had painted your skin
a different shade

I can’t cave
I heard in your head
crashing against the backs of your eyes
making you tear up
making people stare
I wondered
I wish I had wondered aloud

You left.
and did not come back,
found comfort in someone else’s arms
not that you knew mine were here,
hoping, wanting
-until feeling passion so intense
it could be felt as pain-
to brush away your humiliation,
calm your hands from clenching it’s shovel,
to fill the hole you’d dug,
and smooth your knotted brow

the heated knife of frustration,
and hot-blooded fervor
was legible in your eyes

as legible as the tears,
and the pain

I would.
If you had known
If you had asked
I silently whispered, pleading until my hands were cold and white in the December morning
I’m here, I’m here, turn your head, I’ll give you what I can
but I should have said my hopes aloud,
exposed myself as more than the bystander,
exposed myself as someone who wanted to be more
in a life that was more important
than you thought it was

Your voice is warm
and higher than mine
you sing without coal-covered notes
with a voice that never rises in pitch
your laughter is handed out like free pencils
(nobody refuses a free pencil, but within an hour they litter the floor)

Possessing black-rimmed eyes
and a milky face
you have caught in your cream-coated hands
the boy that once put his arm on the back of my chair

His eyes drift to you
and I find it fascinating
how I do not completely dwell
on the possibility of ripping your yellow-white hair
from your albino scalp

I watched you there, sitting in the small booth.  You were sitting in your denim pants, with your arm draped over the top of the bench’s backing, as if someone had been sitting with you, less than moments ago.  A thought flashed into your eyes, and your posture became awful, it bent like a string that was meant to resound and hum, but instead twanged and then broke.  The way you sat brought the table closer to your chin, and your eyes became watery.  
You were gazing into your brown drink. You hadn’t touched the rim yet, hadn’t moistened it with your lips, which hid under a forest of coarse growth.
Did you notice the consistency of the foam in your glass?  I bet you the waiter had spat in it. He didn’t like your tone; even as glass with something thrown in the middle.
He couldn’t place it.
Maybe it was melancholy with an aftertaste of maybe.  An aftertaste of hope.  Or it was an incurable sadness that hadn’t permeated the deepest caves in your lungs. Your heart, I mean.
Did you feel it in your chest?  This emotion?  Let me tell it to you backhand-style, because I think I understand.
It’s the time when the little boy runs off the cliff - but the mother or father snaps their fingers around the child’s hand.  When you open your eyes,  the child isn’t what you thought he would be (gone).  He isn’t a soul that, with the loss of him has ripped the living, beating heart from your bare chest.  He hasn’t.  No, no, but the claws have grazed your skin. Still, you live, the child lives.  This is because he hasn’t stolen the air from your heart.  Your lungs, I mean.  When you see him alive, then your lungs swell, swell, swell, then they pop.
Then, and only then, you know you’ve reached your capacity.  Ah, but listen now; when joy leaves, it empties a room.  The room can get very empty, and cold, like December, and meaningless like July afternoons.  The rupture from the pop heals, and where do you go?  You know what you’re missing, and you can’t get it back.
There you were,  back at the shrinking booth.  The foam hadn’t nestled in your mustache - yet-.  The waiter turned away.  You couldn’t see inside his mind, but your eyes told me the loss in yours.
I sipped my orange juice, all the while wondering how you were, wondering why I like to watch.

The little snakes beneath your skin
open up their mouths
their heads bloom
their tongues loll out,
turning a hearty lavender
your eyes refuse to blink

each second resounds
with a muffled twitch of your left eye

after 345 milliseconds
your eyes close
and after twenty seven hesitant days,
the snakes take their dry tongues back in