She woke up
And she could feel
His chest
Rising and falling underneath her fingertips
And she thought
She'd fall back asleep
Over
And over
And over again.
Just to wake up
Draped in him
Over
And over
And over again.

It's not stealing.
More like glorified borrowing
Of things that glitter
Like stars in the fresh
Alcoholic
Night sky.
Or better yet.
Merciful adoption
Of the abandoned
Reaching out
to my
More than willing fingers.
I was antiquing in the future
For things that decorate
The background
Of nights that represent
Desperation and regret.
It's not stealing.
It's *claiming memories

I can tell you that the caged bird sings
Slow, sad songs about her wings.
Notes, like tears her crying brings
As through the air her sorrow rings.
Caged birds are told they cannot fly
No matter how much they wish or try
They're told to kiss their dreams goodbye
And are left to sing and wonder why.
This caged bird escapes to a ray of sun
Just her, a moment, if only one
She sits until her crying's done
And sings and flies for her, for none.
I don't know why the caged bird sings
Of flight and freedom and other things.
She's forever doomed, her heart stings
For the hope to which her singing clings.

I saw him in the candlelight
With his elbows resting on his legs
His head facing the ground
And his eyes closed. Tightly.
So tightly they refused to be opened
To acknowledge that mine were there
Looking straight at his face
For the very first time.
It was as if he'd found something
More powerful than even him
To sit in reverence of.
And the candlelight tricked me
Into believing that too.
I could see light dance off of every inch of his face.
No smile.
No expression.
Just his mouth moving with every whisper
And his eyes shut tight.
I looked away but stayed focused
On the corner of my eye where I could see his back
Move up and down
With every
Single
Breath.
And I thought to myself how incredible
To fall in love with the man
That only God and I had the privilege to see.

He's a writer for sure
Every ounce of him.
That's why he stopped
Drinking wine,
Except for Wednesdays
Of course.
He has a taste for
Cigarettes and the hard stuff.
The stuff that's going
To make him forget
About all the things
He's going to write about in the morning.
But really,
How could he forget
Every single moment
Of his entire life.
He's not arrogant
But **** the devil if he's humble.
No, he's just used to
Being kicked in the face.
And he's good at it.
So why stop now?
Every morning is a hangover
And every night
Is another reason
To write down everything
Because **** everyone
Who tells him no
He's too **** good at it.
Let's drink to that tonight.

She always looked so tired
Like her green eyes hated to stay open
And her neck couldn't hold her head up;
Not with all of her thoughts going like racehorses down a track.
I loved the way she trudged this way and that
And how every breath she breathed was deliberate and thoughtful,
She planned each step and blink as if it was her last
That's the way it seemed.
Except when she felt the words moving through her
In a song
Or a poem
Or a story
And her neck would strain to feel it like a cool breeze on a hot day
Her eyes would open and refuse to close
Hoping it was the last sight they ever saw.
Her tired, trudging breath and feet turned into springs and she swayed
With the music of the words she felt inside of her.
And I loved her for it.
And for everything else.

No, I will not blame the explorer,
Because I have been there.
Because I have sailed my broken ship
Through rough waters
On to the rocky shore
And watched the harsh winds tear to shreds what I'd worked so hard creating.
I remember the heartbreak-
I still have the bruises-
And I could not leave again.
But I remember
And because of that I am certain
Of what you could not possibly know.
And that's worth travelling the world for.

You made me believe in love, in her power and her grace. I freely gave you what I had and you threw it in my face. I didn't think it could be true but you had me at hello, I devoted myself completely to you, I loved you more than you could know. ***** chewed it up and ate it, spat it right there on the ground. And there at your filthy feet my heart and soul I found. You're a demon, you're a serpant, you're a lying, two-faced troll and what's coming for you is big and bad and it wants your blackened soul. I'd say run your heart out but I know there's nothing there, you're just the Devil in a skirt and heels, pure evil with great hair.

I don't paint.
But tonight, in the crowd.
Amid the drunk beards and the gentle, bobbing women.
With cell-phones seen raised in the air from every angle and every perspective.
While five men in hats danced and sang on a stage.
Light beamed from their faces and the ground shook with every kick of the drum.
My father on one side, my sister on the other.
My body moving left and right.
My hand on my chest and my lungs on fire
My eyes closed and my chin up.
I wore a sweater with a paint stain on the sleeve.

We are lions in cages.
Extroverts anonymous. Facades of hopeful futures.
We        think        differently
Because we are so special
The ball and chain around her ankle is a ten pound book-bag
Portable computer. Portable phone.
Internet. Music. Silence.
Internet. Music. Silence.
Who whips the lions?
The kings and the queens of the jungle.
Are ******.

The words jumped her barbed wire lips and were mangled in the most grotesque and unimaginable way
Escaping restriction to find themselves mangled, left inside out hanging by their own tongues
Off the edge of sanity dripping into forever.
Dipping a toe into the beautiful sorrow that is memory
Tears taste like wine and gin. Words smell like hangovers and violins.
Hearts ache like muscles sore from stretching for so long without use.
And Sundays like porcelain and donuts.

Despite the fact that he doesn't drink coffee--
he hates the way it smells--
He sits in whatever coffee shop I am,
And watches me sip my coffee black.
So my soul has decided that this is love,
That this is truly love,
And I never had a say in the matter at all.

Coffee and cigarettes
Minus the cigarettes
And plus more coffee. I guess.
And crisp weather
That makes my nose cold
But leaves my shoulders
Almost completely exposed.
I'm sneezing into a one hundred-year-old book
Thinking about what I'll look like
In one hundred years.
Dust in the ground
Covered in old coffee stains
Ink on my fingers
Mellow face. Same as now.
Can I not be buried on a park bench?
Can I not sleep with espresso in my system?
Must I be dust inside of this
Ever moving and never happy
Always destructive
Ground.
I'd much rather be ground coffee.
Than dust.
So I guess I'd like you to bury me in black
But sing Queen at my funeral.
And give me coffee before I go.

Do you remember when we drank coffee together
That one morning? And I was
Writing you a letter, but I stopped when you walked in
So we drank coffee together and laughed.
Then separated.
And that was the last time you and I have laughed together
And I miss your smile. And I miss your laughter.
And I wish there was vanilla coffee cream for this bitter taste
You leave in my mouth and in my mind.
But you just walk away. You want to live alone.
So I think I have to accept somewhere along this road
Dark and lonely and desperate for a streetlight,
That my coffee is too bitter for you.
And while I like my coffee bitter
Because it makes the sweet things, the vanilla and the cinnamon
So much sweeter,
You are looking for a roast that is mellow. That will not
Challenge you. That will not
Test you.
And I can't promise you that.
But you will always be welcome back to me
To drink coffee. Even when you're bitter. Even when you're angry.
And I will make it sweet for you.

Everyone always told him life was beautiful
No one said why, though. Nonetheless he knew it.
They, all of them, all of you, were preaching to the choir.
He could tell you a million and one reasons why life, the earth, everything
Was beautiful.
He knew them now by heart.
He'd start with the sunshine hitting his skin in the summers, and somehow move onto the rain in June on his windshield.
Then to the way the cold flirted with him in December...
Nibbling on his ears and kissing his cheeks whenever and wherever he went.
He'd talk about smiles from strangers on the tram, at the market,
And, his personal favorite, in the library.
There he'd read words from rebellious souls who, like him, understand that life was more beautiful than anything or anyone that came out of Italy, Brazil, or Spain.
They'd say, and he'd read, about how life was beautiful in the way that a child with a gap between her teeth is beautiful.
In the most perfectly flawed way.
Life is beautiful because of the way a clock chimes every 15 minutes, and the way everyone depends on it.
It's beautiful because of the sound a pencil makes as it vandalizes a blank page of a journal.
It's because of the way everyone knows it, and falls madly in love with it.
He knew it, but they didn't. And they never would.
They just told him that life was beautiful.
Over and over and over again until he was sure he didn't deserve to live in that light.
And he ran away from it into the arms of tragedy.
Still beautiful, but all the more flawless and terrifying.
And there he went, and there he stayed.

One day not far in the future
I'll remember how I have grown
Fondly I'll walk through the tragedies
and the heartbreak that have shown
That some people cannot be made good,
Their cuts and scrapes are too deep.
Scars have formed on their hearts
Desperately inching towards sleep.
I'll pray for the brightest smiles.
I'll think of those laughing the most.
They're the ones desperate for love.
They're the ones living as ghosts.
I'll tell my children and grandchildren
That not every smile is warm;
Not every hand is worth holding
Some showers are often a storm.
Steer clear of those with hatred.
Never mistake them for misunderstood.
Grudges spread war and unhappiness.
From them I have learned nothing good.
I'll tell them what my mother told me
And what I've learned over time.
When you're trapped in the valley of shadows
Think nothing other than climb.

There are two half-full cups of coffee on my desk
(and one in my car).
But you'd make me more in the morning
If I asked.
Like how you would drive my car in the rain,
Because I can't see the road
(even though I never told you I couldn't)
And then make me watch bad movies.
You're better than the rain,
You're the whole monsoon season,
Shaking the whole world up with yourself,
And making it better every time.

"Do I love her?"
He laughed
As if you'd just asked the bird soaring above your head
If it was flying.

"The sun rises
At the sound of her voice.
The whisper of good morning hiding
Beneath the covers."

"And sets,"
He said,
"When her eyelids close, and I can no longer see
Her smirk shining through the starlight."

"I do not love her."
He sighed
He bellowed.
"I need her."

A twin bed is big enough for two
Perhaps those two chairs are for me and for you.
Even your car says to leave you be and I will never understand how winter
Can harden your heart.
In this house glasses fog and furnaces roar with every passing moment but everything inside coolly whispers
Faster and softer with every heartbeat nervously pounding on my lungs
As my breath gets louder as my throat closes and my mind races
To images of Christmas lights and coffee, gloves and sweaters
Complaining about the cold knowing there's nothing we can do about it.
So we go home and watch a movie drinking hot chocolate from coffee mugs.
Waking up the next morning on a twin bed made for one.
I will never understand how silently you live your life.
A spark from a match can become a candle or a wildfire, one fades and one scars.
And you can drive your car anywhere you like but where will you go alone?
You can sleep every night but what will you do by yourself?
You have a voice you don't use but to sing your praises and excuse yourself but you have a beautiful mouth
That you can use to form the most beautiful words.
Like hello
And even goodbye
Men prefer loneliness from time to time and that's okay but not this winter.
Not this winter.

You want her skin to be like the light from stars shining miles away
In a sky you know nothing of
And her eyes to be gray like storm clouds.
You want her heart to be unexplored
So the map is yours to chart, the land yours to claim, and the life yours to take.
You want her harmony.
You want her voice to be the sounds of a hummingbirds wings,
Sweet like wine on a cool April night
And yet tender like the January wind.
You want the moon.
But the moon is not mine to give away.

Maybe this whole book was given
For starting over.
The same chapter written twice.
Or three times.
Or four.
First in pencil for erasing,
But that weakened the page
And it became sensitive.
So in pen. Crossed out and scarred
Printed and indented into every line.
Infinite directions multiplied by infinite interpretations.
They met, but why?
They wrote, unanswered.
Once or twice. But sometimes called and answered.
Yearned for the alternate ending
Of which reality lacks.
This book is made for starting over and dwelling
In chapters already written
But lacking romantic perfection.

I'd like to think that one day you and I
Could sip tea out of mason jars in my backyard
Under the light of the stars
Just enjoying being in each other's company.
All we have to do is listen to the acoustic beat of the night air
The tap tap tap of feet walking down the street
Or the howling of the police siren as it blares through my town.
Our town, I suppose.
Cause see I've got this patio, and this little gate that barely swings open
And a bunch of chairs I can't occupy by myself.
And you've got that guitar and that smooth voice.
The eyes that won't quit and the laugh that means something else.
You don't even have to dance with me,
I'd just like to sit with you. If you'd take my company.
I would love to watch you hang the moon.

It is nonsense to think
That reason
Has little to do with loving a person.
But it is far more nonsensical
To abandon love
Because logic and reason
Because any logic
For any reason
Told you so.

Our hearts don't break
For lack of love.

Plenty of people do not love me,
And I lose no sleep.

Perhaps your heart breaks for those who do not love you.
But mine,
Mine,
Mine.
Breaks into pieces every time I realize that
Love is not enough.

It hurts when Love has passed us by, it hurts our gentle souls.

When our hands reach for another's grasp it hurts to end up cold.

It hurts to know you love someone and know they're good and gone.

To lay awake with memories that never last too long.

To know you've met the one for you and know they do not care;

To wish beyond the realms of life that when you awake they're there;

To feel your heart leaving your chest; to know each of your tears;

To feel inside your back and front a thousand stabbing spears.

What hurts the most is wishing you'd never been left alone.

To have a friend you could call who would always pick up the phone,

To have that chunk ripped out your heart, to feel the missing piece

And every time you take a breath your breathing seems to cease.

No amount of fake, forced laughs or auto-tuned hoorays

Could make up for the happiness you once felt in his gaze.

It's about time for me to move away; this was never going to work.
The sun is too hot, the wind is too cold, and
Frankly,
I never had the energy to question the winter.
Bundled up, walking in the dark and watching over my shoulder for demons
I've never seen, but never not known them.
I'd rather let go and sleep on any corner in any town
Letting go of what I never had
Than to lay comfortably in a bed I've never shared.
And I've said never seven times.
Because that's how certain winter is.

She just can't play with words anymore.
Everything is coated in a dreary layer of tired eyes and nostalgia.
Every word typed for a different person under a different name
For a different rhyme or reason.
There's no more feeling coming from those fingertips that once felt
The skin of someone not there. The sun when it wasn't shining.
The wind when it refused to howl.
There's only reality.

I want you to buy us a house on second street.
The one with the bed right there on the porch.
Twinkling lights overhead
Surrounded by a dense garden that definitely doesn't belong in this
***-hole filled, trailer trash neighborhood.
There are at least three cacti growing out front, and the house is so tan
Like it's spent way too much time in the sun.
You can go to work every morning with a cup of fresh coffee in your hand
Wrapped in a lipstick stained note saying
I love you honey
Make some money
I'll be here when you come home.
I can spend my days playing violin to the weeds
Writing love notes to strangers to pay the bills.
Or maybe a few sad songs, depending on the rain.
When you get home I'll have a new poem for you
And we can drink iced tea on the porch
And fall asleep under the stars.

He's the cigarette that makes me want to take up smoking.
Because he'd be so good with a cup of coffee on a lazy Saturday morning.
He's every line I've crossed out trying to put to words how I'd like to breathe his poison
Over and over again.
Until he's nothing but a pile of embers and my lungs are black with ash.
He's two strong arms hovering around the waists of girls who already know they're beautiful,
Cause he doesn't have time for girls who don't realize it.
He's a tall, strong whiskey on the rocks.
Sharp as a knife in a New York City mugging,
Cool as the Los Angeles breeze,
Deadly as the Arizona summer.
All I want is to inhale deeply and let him slowly
Stop my breath.

We're all lions here
And we're comparing the size of our teeth as if it's the teeth
and not the bite
That's the most deadly.
We're all swallowed by our pride here.
Apologizing left and right to make ourselves feel better about mistakes that aren't ours
We don't own them.
The moment the "I'm sorry" escapes from my lips it takes with it a
Solid and measurable piece of my soul.
I am waiting.
A lion in a pride of my own bounding on two feet
Looking down at your barred teeth grinning.
Because I will not be owned
Or enslaved
Because adolescence is a stage and I am not an actress in this play.
When the king of the jungle gives up his power where does it go?
Not to the juvenile. Not to the child.
To the one who hunts for it. Who grins while others growl and feasts while others sleep.
I will take it.
And you will whimper before me.

So selfish, so grabby so needy
Take take take
filling me with I owe yous I'm told are good for so much.
But they're not. You skip town, go bankrupt, need a bailout.
Leave me empty, pockets heart and soul.
God my soul.
You painted it so white it shined.
You poisoned me.
Make it appear so deadly clean, I should've seen right through it.
You taped my broken bones back so crudely
But my heart you held the tightest.
So tight you crushed it in your hands and scattered it to the wind as you ran away.
The heart you gave me was counterfeit.
fake, phony, flimsy.
Made of paper and glue, I could tear it apart and you wouldn't feel a thing.
Not one tear.
So selfish. So afraid for yourself.
All the ******* time.

Do you even know what I would say
If every word became a flower?
My dear I'd have a rosebush to give to you.
Roses of every color.
Red for the I love yous
Yellow for the jokes, even the ones that were only funny because you said them.
Especially those ones.
Pink for all the honesty we shared:
About our future,
What we wanted,
What we thought.
White, though, for the perfect moments when we lay side-by-side
And told each other things no one else ever knew.
And learned things about ourselves we never imagined were possible.
Every feeling would sit safely in the leaves:
Our hands touched,
Our eyes met,
Our hearts beat together for the first time.
The flowers would be worth the thorns...
The tears.
Their beauty worth the pain.
And I promise our roses will never die.

He would stand in the doorway every morning if it meant he could
Memorize the way she cradled the coffee in both of her hands.
And how her mouth kissed her cup hello, still too hot to drink.
He hated how the sunrise always ran over her face before he could even open his eyes to watch her breathe in the day,
But she made up for it in how her feet never truly touched the ground
And her perfume took residence in his pillow so even when she left
She was still there.
It wasn’t hard for him to realize that she was as much a part of his home as the socks that always found their way back under the bed.
And he’d never be able to look at that old, goodwill coffee machine again
Without thinking of the weight of her presence rising and falling on his chest.

Never explain except for in love.
When you explain why you feel the need to exaggerate everything that makes you unique
And challenge those who challenge you. Fight those who beat you. Conquer those below you.
When you stand alone in front of the one and say I Am Who I Was Made To Be.
And perhaps explain who you are.
Why you're weird, grotesque, mature, immature, laugh, smile, cry, dream, write.
And that some people watch, some read, some write, some frown, some
Take the time to grow into cases the world lacks the capacity to withstand.
And maybe explain why you're content with this mediocrity that is laughing at yourself.
Singing loudly to empty rooms in a dark house with an off-pitch voice.
Walking the silent, cold streets with your head down arms closed around your chest.
Never excuse yourself for this.
Only explain that this is who you are and no person of worth can take that away.
And no person of worth will take that away.
They will embrace the surprises and the emotions and love.
Without needing an explanation.

Sometimes after it storms the days are dark and cold
And the nights are endless.
These days the sun wants nothing more than to shine
But he’s so frozen with fear that once he does
It will rain again.
Because maybe next time the rain will destroy him once and for all
Maybe he’ll never get to shine again
And he’ll be lost like a piece of driftwood in the sea.
But in the darkness he doesn't look forward
Doesn't read the signs in front of him that say
It will all be alright.
Because even a piece of driftwood lost in a sea of storms and troubles
A simple piece of broken, soaked, and destroyed driftwood.
A fragment of a once great tree that shaded and grew and provided life
That was torn apart by the same storm the sun fears now.
Can become the reason someone lived another day.
And though he lives in fear, though he does not look ahead and realize these things
The sun shines on.

Shes sitting there across from you with her tired eyes clouded over and staring at you without a single word. Pins drop as you remember when you made her smile, made her spirits soar to what she knows she can't reach anymore. You remember when she fell asleep with you on her mind, now she's needing sleep she cannot find. The corners of mouth no longer form a smile, the corners of her eyes drip with tears.
And you don't know what to tell her because you know you've said too much. And she's tired of asking but she needs what you can't seem to let go, what you can't be anymore.
Fingers pointing into silent glances into tears falling ******* the floor. No moonlight finds its way to you, the nights black and blue with remorse.
The sun still refuses to shine while morning creeps in to greet your cold stares. And she remembers how you made her smile and wants nothing but to feel what she fears you can't make her feel anymore.

He knew--
Not well, but he knew--
What she was.
That she was the steam coming off a cup of coffee
No cream-- no sugar--
Bitter & Dark.
And she would rather drink alone than drink what she wasn't
What she didn't want.
But little by little he added
Some grains of sugar.
Some drips of cream
Until she was cool and light.
And now he's sad to see there's no steam.
She lost who she is, he forgot what she was,
And they just don't know each other anymore.

People don't die beautifully for living plainly.
The most gorgeous deaths stem from lives made entirely of chafing and scratching
At the eyes of bystanders and the legs of elites pushing pencils and having babies.
Women do not make history sleeping in the arms of men
That stroke their hair and tell them they're beautiful.
Nor do they change the course of a nation by smiling at those they're told to smile at,
By following rules and setting limits on their intellect and imagination.
Likewise men do not make history kneeling in front of a stone with the word destiny written in repetition
On its surface.
Men do not alter reality by being societal representations of men. Of trees. Of beasts.
Men, and women, who make history,
Who have died beautifully, tragically, desperately,
Have died in incredible circumstances. Have been remembered
For being a thorn in the side or the splinter in the eye of the path laid out by reality
So every breath and every sight was them. Pestering.
Until they could no longer be tolerated.
That's when they were remembered.

I want to kiss you softly and often.
Every moment of every day for the rest of my life if I could
I'd pull you as close to me as possible.
I'd grab your hands and put them around my waist
And taste your lips over and over again until they're all I remember.
When I'm not with you I want to dream of you holding me
Against your chest, feeling it rise and fall with every nervous breath
That sneaks out of your lungs
Through those beautiful lips of yours.
I want to lose myself to thoughts of you taking me by the hands
And fight loving you with everything I have.
I want to lose
Myself
In the way you kiss me sweetly and hold me tenderly.
In the way you've already kissed me sweetly
And held me gently, softly, warmly, kindly that one night.
I want to hate you. But more than that.
More than your lips, arms, eyes, smile, breath
I want to love you as wonderfully as a girl can love a boy
Beautiful and innocent until no more.

I am made up of an entire soul
Completely furnished with potential and with life.
That can love with a love that love has not imagined.
And I have thoughts that rage on like the rain beats against a window in the dead of February.
As the rain greets the Valentine's on their way to their nights I listen to my heart
Beat.
Beat.
Beat against my chest.
The strings of the violin I left at the church play on and on like a love song barely out of tune.
As the G and the D and the A and the E tell me to go
From the church that's too far for me to visit after so much wine.
I might sleep.
I might do a lot of things.
I might even write poetry.
But one thing I'll certainly do is love
with a love that love cannot even fathom.
And my heart may beat out of my chest.
And my lungs may collapse.
But I will love
until my heartstrings tear apart with yearning.
And then I'll drink more wine and pretend.
I don't love anything at all when we all know
That's just not true.

All I know for certain is that I lost you.
Somewhere between "hello" and the goodbye that stopped my heart,
My smile didn't matter to you any longer,
And my hand became a world too heavy for you to burden.
Somewhere between "hello" and never seeing your face again
Watching the moon rise over the lake turned into a complete and utter memory
Of a moon that waited on the other side of the parking garage roof,
And love turned from a campfire
To wood too damp to kindle a flame.
I don't know where my accomplishments began affecting you
More than the spring in my step,
Or my tears became tangible evidence of discovering reality
But there was a specific point where it turned.
After so many months, years have passed, the point has left me.
My heart beats again
I smile, and write, and dance,
But for fear of finding the turning point once more
I do not love.

I got this idea in my mind
That the moon hangs right up above your head
And the stars **** through your eyes.
So when you're not there, the sky turns dark and lonely
And not even a strong cup of coffee can wake my sleeping heart.
So I guess what I'd like to say is
Don't go anywhere for a long, long time.

There was a loud pop,
Then there was chaos
Like the very word "silence" had ceased its existence
For no other reason
But to be lusted after.
And the man with blood flowing from his head
Lying face down on the pavement
Saw not his own life in a flash
But that of a daughter he never knew
Lived out a full 90 year lifetime.
Whom he was able to love with a love
That could only stem from absolute
Deafening
Chaos.

Typewriters are more romantic than
Leather journals and black pens.
But there's something about my cursive that feels like
I'm just writing unsent letters with love from my wrist
To you.
And to me
That's the biggest piece of my soul I have to offer.

I fell in love twice.
The first, a glorious trip over cheap champagne and the dreams of youth.
Tremendously child-like , desperately adult.
But nothing that burns so bright dies slowly without notice.
And I swore I would never love again.
The second, greatest love
Happened without intention
And saw into the future. And saw reality.
And was a great, great love.
Subtlety spread from an ember to a wildfire,
And I've learned that love hurts more as an ache
Than it ever could as an explosion,
And sometimes feels like loneliness.

Sometimes late at night when I can't sleep, which is more often than I can, I daydream about princes and flowers, shiny things and comfort. I over complicate things that have simple explanations, and brush off things that need my utmost attention. I think about rain and snow that I never see, and dream about dust blowing at my face and the feeling of concrete sun burning my feet at noon. I think about all the moments of the day I forget about, like walking to class and shading my eyes from the sky, and I remember how beautiful it is. And I wonder why I lay awake in my bed thinking about princes and flowers and shiny things when I have the sun at my back, the grass between my toes and the world at my fingertips.

He is made up entirely of perfection
The boy who without any flaws, they called him.
With as much heart as soul, as much soul as mind, and as much mind as strength.
The way he carried himself was perfection.
Steady, step-by-step, looking neither down at his feet or up at the sky
Nor straight ahead
But perfectly in front of him with attentive eyes that didn't search the crowd.
He sat when he needed to, stood when he needed to,
And knelt down only to God.
Each word he used on paper or in voice was riddled with kindness and honesty, and deliberation
As if he had dedicated his whole life to finding that word, to use it in such a way
As to share it with you in that moment.
Truly he spent his time thinking about words and meanings,
So that each word he spoke and thought had meaning
Nobody knew that he was lonely, and the words were to him more than words
But a way to describe, but a code, but a message in a bottle
With limited time to speak and ears to hear,
Words chosen perfectly for each occasion to introduce himself
To perhaps his soul mate.
But he was made of perfection, whose soul-mate didn't exist
Whose soul-mate was too imperfect to tell him she heard him when he said
In his backwards code
That he was in love with the sky and the sun, the moon and the stars
And wanted nothing more than someone to walk with at night.

If you don't buy me some wine
Then I'm just going to take shots of that **** ***** my cousin bought me
Alone in my room
Until I forget about this week
And finally get some sleep.
You know what...
I'll do that anyways.
Wine or no wine
Today is the day to start
Drinking again.
And making mistakes I can blame on something other than myself.

I don't rhyme anymore.
Walking home in the dark,
Holding hands with strangers and
Falling.
Painfully; shocking my body
As it cracks and whips when it hits the ground.
The sunlight beating off of my straw hat.
Shoes that are too small
People that talk too much.
And people whose tongues are raw with bite marks.
The Word of the Lord.
Sitting, standing, crawling, drinking,
Coffee and tea.
Outside stairwells at midnight
Trying to breath and waiting for peppermint.
My life does not rhyme.
So why should I?

She's a mess.
The smallest fall of snow is a blizzard in her mind
And the cold is incurable.
So she sleeps when she can,
And wakes when she must.
Until, of course,
The day she can replace his old t-shirt
That she wears to fall asleep
With his strong and kind arms.
And she can replace the cold night air on her lips
With his.
So her dreams are stuck in euphoria between goodnight and goodmorning kisses.
That's how she'll survive the snowfall.