the burden of self is lifted when i laugh at myself. -- Tagore

You cut off my hands
You broke my brittle, blackened body to bits, searching
The hands of a healer.

I felt nothing.

The nerve endings no longer crawled with static
Worms dried out in the sun
Lumpy, hollowed tunnels where the monarchs would fly
Now concave, the ceiling falling in, my spirit in disrepair

You grounded me
When you had every reason to bury my remains
But what little life I had took root, worked its way around your wrists
Lazily laced the veins in your arms with the vines

Months to nurse me back to health
Now
Flourishing after the fire.

I spew ink.

My whole life I believed I
Was made of tar
People walking by would leave their shoes behind
I thought that my lovers were stuck there
Caught in the goopy blackness of my stirring soul
I had no beaters, no mixing spoon
And they would gasp for breath on the surface

I pushed them out
I could not stand to hurt them so
Letting them die would be such a low blow
And it surprised me
To watch them leave so quickly
Like they didn't even want to fix me

One boy tried to clean me out with his bare hands once
And the farther he reached, the dirtier we both became
He traced my name with his fingers on my grimy car windows
"Wash me" the message would say
And I would try to shampoo the tar out of my hair

But as I looked at the spattered stains underneath my fingernails
My poetry, black and white
I saw right through my self-told  lies.

I spew ink.

Like an exploded pen in your white shirt pocket.
Look at the beautiful spots bleeding into the cotton.

Please don't leave.
I promise it's just ink.

I will leave lipstick stains on the glasses
When you try to get drunk you will still remember me.

I'm a poet tree
Water me down to the roots
Carve your name into the bark

I am never leaving
I'll stretch my roots as far as my soul will let me
I'll reach for the sun

(But promise me you'll be there in the shade)

Trying not to be
A grump over something as
Small as sandwiches.

His white, wool shirts hang in the closet
I count them like sheep
To put my heart to rest

Our eyes lock, our lips lock, our legs lock, we become completely undone.

And even when it is over
He nestles his head against my chest
I run my hands along the grooves in his muscles

We are inseparable
(Who knew something so lovely could be in two places at once)

To think that for six continuous months
He has been mine and I have been his

i. we flew to a foreign country
We paid for over-priced sunscreen to "save the environment"
And we laughed as we paid $15 for something we'd only use once
Swam with dolphins and didn't have enough money to buy the pictures in the end.
But we had experienced it with each other and it really didnt matter.

ii. two am in the emergency room
He was wearing the hospital gown that makes your **** hang out
And it wasn't funny until after his kidney stone had passed
And we knew it was going to be okay

He and I have been through car problems, job searches, *** meltdowns, misunderstandings, laughter, love, and happiness.

See--

You and I
had moments
He and I
live moment to moment.

We spat watermelon seeds across the sidewalk
And I know that secretly we both wished that beautiful things could grow from cement
We would've weaved the vine into my hair, because green is your favorite texture
And you've never been able to run your fingers through my eyes the way you can this mane
Love
Sometimes
I took a pocket knife and cut the skin from tomatoes
Because seeing something raw and untouched like that made me wish I could peel your thoughts away just as easily
But none of my can openers worked the way they promised they would
So it's up to you to open your cans of worms, I suppose
Dump them in the dirt of my mind
I promise beautiful things grow here
Somewhere
It's just that you haven't planted any kisses in a while
And I'm waiting for the rain before I invite you to do something rash and wonderful like that
Can you believe I snapped the handle off my ***** today
The ground was just so difficult
I couldn't make room for the new thoughts I'd like to grow
Or even succeed in throwing out the dreams hanging from dead cherry blossoms in the yard
Well, the second is not really because of my *****, I have spares
But must I be distracted by your beautiful eyes glancing through the peepholes in my fence as I work
You have so many beautiful things to tend to in your own yard, love
Make a book of poetry about them
And send it to me when you get lonely for feedback or compliments

Can I tell you a secret nobody knows
I hate the part where I must follow the trail of realities to the back door where my dog is chained to meet me
Once again, abandoning my attempts to grow beautiful things from this paper
For you

you are love personified.

Today is the day
We dress up like the skeletons in our closet

We will see witches
But we will not remember the normal women in Salem
Accused

Today is the day
We let the children dress up like goblins
Wrap their arms around our necks
As the demons from our past leer just behind
Breathing down our backs.

Dress up like the ghosts
From your past and try not to
Scream when they come by.

are you jealous of the jellyfish?

it is said they have no hearts at all
neither loving nor hating
floating in a utopia
"nowhere," as it is called

the tentacles have no one to love
hurting everything it touches
they have no eyes
love is blind, they say
but what use are
eyes if there is no heart

what use are these arms if no one will reach back?

hamburgers for dinner.
happy earth day.

i
am just waiting for five o'clock to get here.
and you
are over there hoping five o'clock never comes.
we
live in parallel universes for a moment.

my bones
ache from the weight of your soul.
and your bones
can't survive without a crutch called me.
we
live in parallel universes for a moment.

my eyes
open the rising of the sun.
and your eyes
widen with the waning of the moon.
we
live in parallel universes for a moment.

i
no longer love you.
and you
finally fell in love with me.
we live in parallel universes for a moment.

i don't want to flatten you out
put you on a frame in the hall of fame
where people would go just to gawk and stare at you
that would be so cruel of me, because you-
you
are so much more complex than that
you are the foundation of a house
something everyone takes for granted because they cant see it
how many times have you slipped out unnoticed
by those looking for the shiniest, brightest stars in the world
if you look for those
you miss the planets
you miss the way that you sleep with a shirt over your head to "block out the light" so you can sleep better
you miss the ridiculous, pleasurable conversations
"did you know that Louie Armstrong would cut off the callouses on his lips with a pocket knife?"
"we should write a comic strip about a starch that smokes **** and call it "The Baked Potato."'

let's keep away from the photographers, the paparazzi, the artists, the writers

you hate attention anyway
said you would rather "sleep on the roof for a week" than give a presentation in public

i have discovered you
but i won't ever tell

the books will not mention you
there will be no statues of us
but the ones we build with sugar cubes on the privacy of our own kitchen table
where messes like us can be swept away and kept in no other place than our memories
and the storage on my phone

i will memorize the lines on your torso and back
but children will never study you in geography, they will never be asked the year you were born or at what latitude and longitude your chest muscles meet your abdominals

a search on Google will pull nothing about you

you remain undiscovered
to all
but me.

it's true.
what they say.
suffering drives you to make laughter.

My New Year's Resolution
is not to keep a running count of unfixed nicks and cracks along my foundation
i want to train myself to understand that the blemishes and smudges i see when i look into a mirror are not real because the beholder is broken and the beholder is me.
i want to sit down at a table with myself and have an honest conversation
stop telling myself that my accomplishments are amateur and meaningless
i want to stop wiping my name off the trophies in my brain with nail polish remover
give myself credit where credit is due
i want higher self esteem, don't you?

Every month when I have ***
It's like a hurricane ripped through my sanity
Tearing the curtains
Shattering the glass so I can barely see out the window
My perception of myself is distorted
I feel like a sandbag being carried through Arizona
Useless, purposeless
I lie in my bed staring up at the ceiling
My hormones are writhing, mixing, I lose my balance and teeter off the edge
Into the gulley below.

Falling.
I close my eyes. I don't want to be seen,  don't want to be asked what is wrong.
I will suffer and die alone.
I do not even flinch as I am about to hit the pavement.

a hand.

my breathing slows
i fight back the throbbing in my forehead

"what's wrong?"

i bury my tear-stained face into his chest
he slides onto the bed
pulls me tight
rubs my back

"it's okay.
it's all okay.
it's okay."

but what of the men
who work hard
sacrifice
keep their hearts pure?

the age has passed where one would think to honor them

the only recognition comes

in being a working woman
or a man who believes he is a woman
or the man who has feelings for another man

but what of the every day men
who also do extraordinary things?

I would suggest
Staring blankly at the wall
Matching socks or playing cards
(Something like that)
Something important
Until I'm gone

I would suggest
Turning your heart over and over like a turkey on a rotisserie for three days
Until it's burnt all the way through and the nerve endings are too charred to feel anything for me anymore

I would suggest knitting earmuffs for the antennae of your tv
Because it gets cold at night
And I want you to get reception to your favorite Portuguese children shows
Maybe I'm a saint for wanting you to be happy
Maybe I'm a martyr for wanting to be the one that makes you happy
I don't think happiness and my soul can co-exist in your heart

I was made for something a little bit darker than the stars of your eyes
I think that much was proven when I fell from grace into the hell-scarred arms of another
I am a creature of darkness

Because you are light
And I have been driven away

i am looking for a reason to get out of bed
the way my husband will look for the toenail clippers which fell behind the desk
he could probably move it by himself
but i am weak
and it is very hard for me to lift myself out of these sheets
let my feet touch the floor
walk to the sink
finger my hair as i look in the mirror
softly blink
lift the weight pressing onto my shoulders
and whisper:
"Today is going to be a good day."
"Today is going to be a good day."
"Today is going to be a good day."

you are the sunrise of my smile. :)

I wrote scores about him
Dipped my hair in paint and left a trail of where thoughts of him would take me
Who knew it would line the entire highway
Dotted lines
Straight lines
All mixed up
I could have written novels of my lonely journeys
The Hobbit has nothing on me
I filled notebook after notebook
Love that he would never see
And I am glad you like long showers
Because lately
I have torn the pages from those notebooks
And watched the ink run together as the water hits the floor.

the suns dance around
in their orbits
picking and choosing what will revolve around them
all in their tribal costumes
nothing matches
no unified purpose
no one remembers the first dawn
curled lips and fiery gazes
their chaos absorbs through the skin of so many
but i am wearing sunblock

Are you raising plants from the ground
Are you coaxing foxes from their dens
Are you waiting for the sun to be confident again
(for it to stop hiding because it thinks the moon shines brighter
and it is ashamed)
I need time alone
Need time to sift my thoughts through my spaghetti strainer brain
You took a ****-whacker to my youth, too
And somehow I survived
So I will be still
And close up like a flower
When the darkness comes.

i've scrambled
trying to find the whites of my eyes
(have i cracked yet?)
it all boils down to the thoughts i've poached from others
(i exist to create, not to consume)
i tried looking at the world sunny-side up, but the devil in me broke the yoke that i used to share with Jesus.

when you split an atom we all know what happens
so why do i doubt myself
being so small?

if an ant can lift a lot more than its own body weight
then shouldn't i at least be capable of lifting myself
of rising
of sleeping above the stars

hello, poetry.
the most bipolar part about me.

there are days when you burst into my room uninvited, 
i wonder if my rhymes are that rude, too.

hello, poetry.

there are moments when you lay an understanding hand on my shoulder,
i wonder if my words have ever been the comfort food for a melanchoy mind.

hello, poetry.

sometimes you go streaking across the traffic of my brain
and i laugh when i think that these stanzas are slaves to my nakedness as well

you 
hide under my bed
leave flowers on the doorstep
break my windows
steal all of my clothes
make it impossible to sleep
breathe on my neck
mend my mind, while
irritating the places that are already wounded

but i can't live without you.

hello, poetry.

He was a drug addict, they would tell me
He was "malo," they would say
Until a policeman lost his patience
beat him
so bad that he was in the hospital for months
And never walked again
"He had it coming" was the way they'd end the story

But as I visited with him
I discovered more

He read through the entire Bible while he was getting treatment
His spirit changed
And when he was well enough to leave the hospital bed he was taken home just to be laid down again, yet I suppose that
Sometimes he had a wheelchair

He had a job
wheeled himself across miles of dirt road to get there
people would come in, greeting and asking him, "che, como andas?" which is Argentino for "dude, how are you doing?" but a closer translation would be, "dude, how are you walking (or going)?" he would always smile from his chair and say jokingly, "i don't go, i sit."

He was married and had a little boy, Alejandrito (which means little Alexander)

And i would watch him and his family
in their little tin house patched with plywood
His wife loved him; she met him after his accident
and she was never cross about doing everything for him
they had nothing
yet enjoyed everything their poverty had to offer

my favorite phrase he ever said was:
"if your problems have solutions, why worry? and if your problems don't have solutions, why worry?"

It was a catch and release
But you never took the hook out
Reeling me back in whenever it's convenient for you to show your friends the incredible catch you are capable of procuring from a sea of nobodies
I am terrifying and beautiful
Terrified and wide-eyed
Yes
I loved you
I love you
Please stop.

A decade from now,
            My words will only be a carcass even birds won’t want
            To pick at anymore.

I won’t be able to keep track of where my similes skip off to,
And maybe I’ll discover later that they crossed the street like a chicken
That wouldn’t know to look both ways,
Causing a six car pileup,
But never making it to the other side of the road as I intended them to.

Maybe my metaphors will age quickly,
            And ten years down the road
            Their doggy jowls will quiver with one last yawning breath
            As they collapse beneath the nearest tree from hip failure
            Resting at last beneath a pleasant summer sun.

I don’t like to think about it,
But I’ve entertained the idea
That perhaps I will neglect my words,
            Letting all the quatrains pass me by.

Yes, that is how my structured sentences will meet their end:
            With no periods
            But a blank space
                        Where your name should be.

I’d like to think that someday
            I won’t have this horrible need to write anymore
I’ll describe my perfect days because I want to,
Not to fill this void I made
When I handed out my consonance like candy
            And scattered similes in the air like skittles
            During that drought we had a while ago
When everything was black and white
And I thought everybody wanted
A taste of the colors I’m made of.

I like to entertain the thought that someday

Someday
            People are going to reach back through the decades and excavate my words
            And try to find deep meanings beneath all my poetry.
            Scholars will slit the throats of my similes,
            Claiming there was some philosophical point pumping through the jugular,
            And I might laugh somberly [a little] if they do.

            They’re going to find the rotted carcasses in the most random of places:
            A passenger seat,
            The floor by a bathroom,
            A stairwell,
            Under a tree.

I know that some might try to find the cause of death.
In fact,
I know they will.

But I’d much rather people look for the only reason of birth,
The only meaning behind all my metaphors,
I want these people to catch the quatrains I let pass me by when it hurt too much.

When it hurt too much
To just write-

I love you.

i could scribble "hey, cutie" on your napkin in red lipstick while you're in the bathroom

and watch you fold it fancy-like and tuck it into your suitcoat
for safekeeping

i could offer to foot the bill at village inn with my new visa card that came in the mail two days ago

and feel you slip ten dollars into my hands asking if you can pay for half

i could squeal and laugh when you flick your tongue into my mouth while we're kissing

and hear your soft chuckle and the sultry whisper "you're so cute,"

i could wrap myself around you and whisper how much i adore and need you
licking the back of your neck and feeling your muscles flex
beneath my touch

and know that in just moments you will run your tongue across me, too
and i will be swimming in your glory

i could throw a fishing line into our pool of ideas
draw one up
examine it, gut it, roast it over a fire
and share a warm meal of minced minds with you

to find that you are playing with my hair and nuzzling your nose into my back as i talk and laugh with you
over this meal meant for two

i could scrape the snow from your windshield every morning
and draw hearts endlessly in the frost that formed across your soul when your mother died

your lips would crawl across me,
whispering "Kate Lyn" the whole time

I do not well up
Do not turn green and rip my pants up

I do not let the world see

I sit on the couch
Eating my lemonheads

Stewing.

My heart flat-lined yesterday
At approximately 5:28 in the afternoon
The time doesn’t really matter
Nor, I suppose
Does the fact that I flat-lined yesterday
(For; I’m still alive, though not living)
But I thought it was an interesting fact
And wondered if you, too, would be interested in knowing
That I hit ground-level apathy
For everything
And for reasons beyond my control

Before you go thinking I’m depressed over you
Or over something you did
Be assured that my heart flat-lined for reasons beyond anyone’s control
Except my own
But it had to be done, I suppose
In order to feel again

The funny thing is knowing
That I could curl up on my bed and eat my favorite things
While reading the letter you wrote to me a few years ago
And fall in love with you again
With the wonderful twists my stomach makes
When you look at me a certain way
Or when I think of your lips meeting mine

But the thing that scares me the most to think about
Is that perhaps it wouldn’t be me falling in love with you again
If I have to eat my favorite things to be feel a certain way

The thing about today is that I know God is up there somewhere
But I can’t find it in me to care
I’m neither sinning nor making good
Not being tempted, not being persuaded
I simply exist
With no plans or future or decisions to make
I suppose my struggle with my favorite foods is the one exception to what I’ve described

See,
I know that God is up there somewhere
But today it’s that I just cannot force myself to care
There’s a wall between He and I somewhere in the lining of my stomach
(And though I never meant for it to be there)
It keeps Him from touching my soul
18 years of bad habits built up in my arteries
Clogging my heart from anything but apathy
But somewhere I found it in me to cry yesterday
As it flat-lined at 5:28
God made me human
With all these emotions
That I have a natural right to feel

(I know now
Why our Mother ate that which was forbidden)

So this apathy
Is a test trial of us
And though I still love you
Today
I don’t feel for you
Or for anything
Until tomorrow
(I hope)

what does your hand reach for
away from the power source?
why do you reach away from that which will heal and help you?
fame in the west
false sense of security and peace in the north
greed fuels the reach for the east
down south you will find heartbreak and misery
don't overextend yourself
give yourself a backache from reaching for a happiness that will never come
instead, turn inward for a moment
reach for the light that is within you
give the richest parts of yourself away
and there you will find true happiness.

We are afraid of tying knots.
Now, my brothers weren't fond of Boy Scouts, but those aren't the kinds of knots I'm talking about.
Our parents got us velcro shoes growing up (something about not wanting us to be overwhelmed with tennis shoes)
And that, perhaps, was the moment that started everything.
We could no longer trip on loose laces as we ran our races,
Our parents couldn't see our disappointed faces as we fumbled getting ready for school.
It was the perfect contribution to the flawed illusion that the human institution should be prevented from failing.
Oh, yes.
In my lifetime, cordless telephones were placed in every house because we did not want to untangle our own messes anymore.
Failure doesn't hurt as much when it is invisible.
We wanted wireless, no-strings-attached luxuries with no side effects.
But there were effects that couldn't be seen
(how could they until we were older than teens)
Because the end effect was this:
a generation that shirks responsibility
we have anxiety
because our parents didn't let us face our fears when we were young
we are jobless, loveless, purposeless
because we still haven't realized that everything has its opposite
love - lust
success - failure
happiness - sadness
peace - anger and commotion
you see?
there are full-grown adults living in the basements of their parents
watching **** from an illuminated screen
a no-strings-attached commitment to a video that will never require a vow or a promise;
so many see the term "settling down" as "kicking up dust" of a dull life "confined to a four-inch screen."

we've seen our own parents cut the ties
now living separate lives
better that way, but millennials can't fight
for love or for kids or for dreams
because their caretakers' examples couldn't teach
the right way to do a marriage
the right way to commit
we are shirking responsibility--

because we don't want to fail.

still as afraid of tying knots
as we were in kindergarten.

-
-
-
And perhaps every love story is the same story
Perhaps we've all just conditioned ourselves to tell it differently
In ways that make the most sense to us.

I am now
attached at the thumbs
connected through the fingertips
it thinks for me
navigates for me
reads the minds of others to my face
it is a lens
through which I have access to an invisible world that no one can see
unless they have a prosthetic limb like me

if i were in Paris
i would march for you
hold up a banner made from scraps of your favorite shirts

if i were in Greece
i would carve your face into a column of the parthenon with "God" written legibly across your lips
(for He is love, and i love kissing you)

if i were in China
i would cover myself in paper mache
disguise myself as a Terrecotta soldier,
move up to commanding officer and lead the whole army to guard your resting place
(because
you
are my emperor)

if i were in Israel
i would build a bomb shelter
and safe from the heat of those who hate us,
our bodies would discover fire

if i were in Argentina
i would lay claim on you
the way the country claims LAS ISLAS MALVINAS and vows to never forget

if i were in the United States
i would miss you the way that Obama misses his intelligence briefings
we would sit on our smartphones and text haikus back and forth as we sat back to back with each other

darling?
i love you to the comet Europe landed on
and back.

Someone should drop a rock on me like a paperweight
At the bottom of a well
So I can decide if these words are worth keeping
What
Don't you feel like you might be blown off the desk sometimes, too
There are a lot of settings for the ceiling fans and even if they whistle some of them might not be as avid for your autograph as you'd think
Sometimes there isn't a difference between fan mail and hate mail
It's just people who are too tired to empty their souls into a pitcher and the paper makes a wall around their drooping sandbag hearts
And I forgive them
Because the well was dry long before anybody could refill it

I could very well end up in a wastebasket for my trouble
But I want to be worth remembering by my deeds not my name

i saw a friend from middle school tonight
he looked different, his pants were so tight and he talked different

i wish that i'd said hi
i wish that i'd hurdled over my pride
but we were both too afraid to say anything

and it was in that moment that i realized
that neither of us have changed since 9th grade year
it was an awkward silence that has followed us since our awkward stage as teenagers
(and now im 21)

am i going to make it?
-- well, that depends on where you want to go.--
i don't know where i'd like to go. are you happy where you are?
-- yes.--
then i'd like to go there, wherever that is.
am i going to make it?
-- if you want to.--
i don't particularly enjoy it down here. everything seems like an empty dream. and i am just going through the motions. do you feel? i just want to be human. i want to have emotions and be a real person again.
-- i feel. why don't you want to feel?--
because it hurts. it hurts to give yourself up and accept that other people might not give themselves up back.
-- well, i gave myself up.--
you did?
-- yes.--
and did it make you happy?
-- yes.--
even though not everyone gives themselves up back?
-- that is the thing about love. it must be unconditional in order for it to bring happiness. one must come to understand that happiness is found when one looks outside of their self and stops focusing on what he or she is taking.
give, and one will find that they have an infinite amount to give.--
that seems like so much to ask.
-- but it is the only pathway to happiness.--

I'm all spent
No, really
It's just that one boy wanted my love and one wanted my virtue
But I'm not sure which boy wanted what
All I know is that I'm all spent now
I mean,
I gave all my love to the first boy
And looking back
It seems all he wanted were kisses
And the second boy
Well
You can guess some of the things I gave him
But looking back
It seems that all he wanted was words of affection that kisses can't buy
I can only assume
I mean, I wasn't very good at balancing my checkbook when it all started payrolling out like this
All I know is that I'm staring at the bank account and realizing
I have nothing left to give anyone anymore

i listen to "pompeii"
as it burns itself to pieces on the radio
and rises like a phoenix (with no beginning) from the ashes when i repeat the lyrics to myself over and over again

"where do we begin
the rubble
or our sins?"

where did i (the phoenix) begin
in the rubble or
my sins?

are we taken from dust and returned to dust ("how am i gonna be an optimist about this?")

or are we taken from the ashes and redeemed

am i the city everybody loved whose "walls kept tumbling down"

if i was "left to my own devices"
would i even begin?
or would i "close my eyes"
"bringing darkness from above"

but
if a "great cloud rolled over the hill"

could my sins be forgiven
could my sins be forgiven
yet?

you walk in the door
as i walk out

freedom at last.

you wrote a poem once about how i was a flower and you were a monster and you dropped your grape juice on my white peddles
you spelled petals wrong
and that bothered me
but the idea that i was beautiful enough to be somebody's muse
well
i was willing to overlook the fact that you weren't good with hearts, so of course your faults with words meant very little to me
i dreamed in purple once
and grape was the taste on my tongue when i woke, which was silly
because your poem didn't really say anything about knocking a glass onto me like a paperweight to watch me suffocate as its juicy contents stained me violet
i just thought it sounded lovelier as a white lie
like you didn't mean to hurt me and it was just an accident

you told me later you made me a flower because they are at the mercy of whoever plucks them from the garden
and that's when i knew that you knew you had bruised me purple on purpose
i just don't like to think about the part where you are a monster

i have an itch on my heart
i can't get to
unless i write about you.

people say we won't always wear smiles
i wonder why they think we can no longer afford them
who do they think they are
predicting the future like that.

i will not let myself be swept away in the winds of human nature
am i not more than a rock that is weathered and shaped with time?

i have my will
- to adore you, kiss you, feed your soul, wrap you in my own skin and call you home.
you have yours
- to make me feel valued, cherished, loved, happy, touch me in ways that no one else has
God has His.
- to make us happy.

and if we are His children,
are we not creators, too?
coaxers of smiles.
forgers of forgiveness in the fires of tragedy and heartbreak.
carpenters of karma.
what we say and do will follow us throughout existence.

we do not have to fit the mold of the world
although, you've always told me i would still be beautiful even if i was round
even if i went round the continents and stayed away for a very long time

you told me i would still be your "Jenny"
and i believe you

because we are creators
doers
masters of our fate.

i will love you until the holes in my socks stretch wide enough to be a ski mask
and even in our poverty i will slip them off and go to bed with you

you will always find a safe place here.

I scratch up my own insides
Because there isn't a window
Not one
And how am I supposed to tell how things really are
If all I can do is feel them
Like I feel you
Now